Things Hidden
by Lala Kate
Summary: S2 AU with elements of canon. Repeated meetings and misunderstandings forge a rocky path to be traversed.
1. Chapter 1

_This series was inspired by a group of prompts I received on tumblr and decided to merge into a connective story rather high on angst. I am hoping to updated weekly as much as my schedule allows, although Ch 2 will probably post either later today or tomorrow. Thanks so much to **oliviagracex35**, **wdedalus**, and **ultrahotpink** for the prompts that inspired the story. They are probably not quite what you had in mind, but I hope you enjoy the outcome! _

_I own nothing. _

* * *

"Good-bye, then," she managed, memorizing the texture of his cheek as trembling lips brushed rough smoothness, absorbing the scent of his uniform as it mingled with the fumes from the train. The blue of his eyes pierced her soul, their hue somehow even more startling in the marked contrast to the grayness of the morning.

She sealed her own eyes shut…pressing these small nuances into her memory just in case…

Just in case.

"And such good luck."

The words were nearly a sob, the trembling of her hands somehow keeping threatening tears at bay as she took in every detail of his face.

Every detail.

She hated herself at that moment, feeling responsible for the fact that he was leaving, thrusting himself into a war he should never have to fight. Her own indecision knifed her gut yet again, and she knew that if anything happened to him…

No—she could not allow such thoughts to even gain a foothold. He would return…would survive…would inherit Downton, marry Lavinia…

Oh, Matthew.

She turned to go, knowing she would shatter before him if she didn't flee immediately. But a strong hand clasped her upper arm, preventing her escape…

Drawing her closer to her own undoing.

His gloved palm cupped her cheek, seeing something on her face that would not allow him to let her go. Dark eyes rounded, teeth unconsciously biting her bottom lip, giving away just enough…

Just enough.

Lips touched down softly, asking…seeking…needing to know.

And her response was quivering...overwhelmed..

And then open.

Arms wound themselves tightly around bodies, clasping everything close as mouths refused to break contact. She had no idea if the dampness on her cheeks came from his tears or her own, not caring about anything except the heat of his lips, the warmth of his mouth, and the unvoiced feelings pouring from one to the other before time forced their hand. For this moment, he was hers, searing her heart with the same ferocity with which his tongue branded the very air filling her lungs.

The whistle of a train tore at her, leaving legs shaking as he leaned back and looked at her as he never had.

"Good-bye, Mary."

The world darkened around her, blocking everything from her sight but him as she forced herself to breathe.

"Remember—you promised to bring it back safely."

The smile never reached his eyes, but lips dared one last lingering kiss, his hand a final stroke of her cheek before he turned to board the train.

To leave her.

She watched until he was no longer visible, a fragment of her heart borne away with him, lost into the wafting steam. She covered her mouth, sealing in the imprint of his kiss while blocking the sobs she knew would overtake her in the privacy of her bedroom. Both fear and regret were chocked down in a swallow, an act of defiance to the deathly stillness of empty tracks. Then she left behind a whisper—a summons, a prayer, before beginning the lonely journey back to the walls of her home.

"You promised, Matthew. Remember—you promised."


	2. Chapter 2

_Big thanks to **Orangeshipper** and to **patsan** for their time and input into this story. You are both such darlings, and I appreciate it more than you know! This chapter is especially dedicated to the wonderful **wdedalus **who sent me the following prompt: _

_Matthew and Mary: Neck kiss. Well...here goes._

* * *

II.

She had to flee despite the cold, regardless of the threat of snow, needing to be away from the house with a desperation that burrowed uncomfortably under her skin.

Had it truly been just over a year now, that day when she allowed herself to believe the course of her life might change even as she feared she might lose him forever? When she had bared her feelings to him for a fleeting fraction in time, when he had kissed with a passion that had shaken her in more ways than she could number?

But he had returned on leave, acting as if nothing had changed, moving about Downton with Lavinia at his side as if their stolen moments at the train station had been no more than a cruel hallucination.

She had she caught him staring at her when he thought no other eyes were upon them, noticed a slight catch in his voice when they actually spoke. The confusion of what to think was driving her slowly mad, and being forced to see him under such circumstances was a form of torture too painful to continue. Enough of her spirit had been slowly chipped away for her own comfort.

She blatantly refused be at Downton when he said his goodbyes.

Yes, she had played her part in this game with no winner, had continued her maddening farce with Richard, attempting to paint her façade in the rich hues of implacability as she held her spine straight and her emotions in check.

But when he had walked into the concert last night, alive and uninjured, the veneer had cracked. Her protection was now shattered, leaving a heart all-too exposed to risk being near him before he left her again in favor of his fiancé. She could not face him in such a state, would not allow herself to be pitied by him in any form or fashion.

The biting sting of winter on her cheeks was a welcome respite from the stifling air of her home, and she pressed her feet forward—steadily forward—seeking a place of solitude where she could lay down any pretense without fear of discovery.

There it was—just ahead—an old cottage sitting in disuse for years that had morphed into a place of refuge for her. Only Carson knew of this secret dwelling, and there was no one she trusted more to guard it.

She pulled the rusty key from her pocket, stepping into a shelter nearly as cold as the outdoors but protected from the biting breeze that had nipped her toes despite their covering. She took the flannel blanket from the cupboard, one softened through years of use, and wrapped it around herself after shedding her coat and boots. The warming light of freshly lit oil lamps bathed the room in a comforting glow, and she sat in the rocking chair that creaked in time, picking up a book she knew she had little chance of actually comprehending.

Still she opened the cover, stubbornly staring at worn pages with unseeing eyes. It was useless. He was too close. And her mind was too crowded with him to take in anything else.

She drew her knees to her chest, discarding the book in defeat as a lone tear slid down her cheek. Its solitude was soon broken, however, as disappointed hopes poured into the material meant to bring her solace. Audible cries filled the small room, choked gasps wracking her chest as the trappings of aristocracy gave way to the rocky emotions of a vulnerable young woman in love with one man yet bound to another.

It was no wonder she missed the small click of the door, an understanding that she was being watched only dawning at the sensation of winter air breathing down her neck. She stood quickly, staring at the intruder, gaping in disbelief as she half-wondered if her imagination was turning on her.

"How did you find me?"

He looked at her sheepishly, removing his hat and tilting his golden head in a manner that always got to her somehow.

"Carson told me," he admitted quietly, his eyes dancing between her face and the floor. "Don't be angry with him, Mary. I literally had to grovel to convince him to tell me where you were."

Her heart thudded painfully, feeling as though it might bruise her ribs in an effort to reach him.

"Why are you here?"

Her voice was cold, her stare as brittle as she could muster as she hastily wiped a tear away from his scrutiny.

"I couldn't leave without seeing you, Mary. I couldn't…"

Their gazes locked fast as the streaks left by unhindered weeping punched him in the gut. Had he been the cause of this? He took a step towards her as she stumbled back, afraid of what being too near him would do to her.

"I had to see you."

His actions from a year ago had eaten away at him, creating a tightening noose of frustration from which he could not extricate himself. Had he taken advantage of her concern for him when he had kissed her publically without her consent? Made her feel obligated to conjure up emotions she did not feel to send him off to war properly?

When he had heard nothing from her, he convinced himself of his folly, reaffirming his loyalty to Lavinia even as his heart remained shaken by the woman now standing within arm's reach. Then there was her own engagement, the news of which did nothing but convince him that the feelings expressed wordlessly on that platform had been his alone.

But this…her tears…her ardent need to put distance between them…

Was it possible he had been wrong?

She shook her head, closing her eyes to the plea etched on his face.

"You've made your choice, Matthew. What of Lavinia?"

He flinched visibly at her assertion before moving towards her again, not breaking his stride until he was nearly upon her. He stepped over relentless guilt, blatantly denying it the power to thwart what he had come determined to unearth.

"What of Richard?"

She couldn't answer him, swallowing in an attempt to free words lost to her as she could not take her gaze from his face.

"What do you want from me, Matthew?"

She could almost see her words in the frosty January air, half expecting him to snatch them from her lips. But his hand instead reached for her cheek, drawn to her in a manner he could neither explain nor from which he could extricate himself. He searched her face, brushing away anther stray tear, leaning closer to her than he really should.

"I wanted…I just..."

Her eyes shut in absolute understanding. She knew exactly what he wanted.

He leaned in closer.

Their lips found each other, heat sparking instantly despite the cold around them. Their initial touch was soft, tenuous, then fleeting as his mouth left hers to kiss away the dampness on her cheeks. Arms encircled her firmly, keeping the blanket in place as her covering while his lips began a decent down to her jaw before resting on her neck.

"God, Mary."

She moaned into his hair, clasping him closer as lips and teeth worked magic on near her pulse, pulling him closer, ever closer.

Spurring them both to know more.

Soft fingers wound themselves into his hair, weaving her own web of protection around him as his lips were driving her mad. Mouths sought each other again, speaking clearly with no words uttered as the atmosphere shifted…

As the air thickened with a humidity created by mutual need.

Their progression was unintentional yet accepted, a yearning that had become insatiable, emotions that suddenly refused to be shelved yet again in favor of propriety and what was expected. Hands began to work fretfully, loosening restraints and removing all pretense in light of a future that could all too easily be cut short.

Feet walked a quiet trail to a small bed in the corner, a shoddy antique transformed as newness and discovery descended upon its frame.

The blanket covered them both, protecting their nakedness even as skin warmed skin. Touches were reverent, kisses consuming as private places became known. The carelessness of their actions did not even register with her, a hidden danger from years past blissfully forgotten until he eased into her.

And blue eyes widened in comprehension.

She saw the confusion, the disbelief, the question that sliced her open. She grabbed his face, pulling his mouth towards hers and kissing him into silence, moving with him until he had no choice but to complete what they had started with a driving rhythm she knew would salvage nothing even as they cried into each other.

It was over. Horribly and completely over.

He breathed harshly into her hair, still connected to her yet so very distant. She forced herself to hold his gaze, to weather the conflicting emotions crossing his features as he struggled to comprehend what her body had just revealed to him.

"Who was it, Mary?"

She had to turn her face, staring at the wall, the ceiling, anywhere but into eyes weighted down with hurt and disappointment.

"Does it really matter?"

He raised up in incredulity, gazing upon her as is she had changed form.

"How can you be so callus about it? Did this mean anything to you at all?"

She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to block the sting of his words.

"Do you remember that Turkish Ambassador?"

Concentration morphed into shock, his eyes moving furiously as he processed what she had just admitted in a mind still raw from spent passion.

"How could you…why didn't you tell me?"

Her arms felt lifeless, falling weakly to rest beside her head as her voice choked out an answer.

"Because I couldn't bear you looking at me the way you are doing right now. And I knew you would despise me for it."

She swallowed down a sob, forcing herself to look at him.

"For God's sake, Mary!"

He breathed out heavily, shaking his head at nothing—at everything, as he drew himself out of her, rolling off the bed as he increased the gulf between them. He dressed quickly in silence, his back to her a rejection that tore at her physically. She sat on the bed, wrapping herself in the blanket as she silently beckoned him to look in her direction.

He finally did.

"I had thought…had hoped…."

He faltered, uncertain of what to say next. Everything he had sought, had so wanted so badly to be true had unraveled in a formless heap at his feet.

"How could you conceal something like this from me all this time and then be with me like we just were?"

"How could you kiss me like you did at the station then come home to her without a word?"

He froze at her accusation, knowing she was right but too wounded to admit it.

"There is no comparison in what we have done, and you know it."

It could not have hurt more had he struck her.

She refused to run after him as he moved towards the door, a fragment of pride capturing a plea from escaping her as his eyes found hers in the cold.

"Goodbye, Mary. Take care of yourself."

His step faltered, her heart skipped.

"I'm so sorry," he managed, dampening eyes unable to meet hers, more from his own shame than hers.

Just like that, he was gone.

He had left her again.

How suddenly surreal everything became, the cabin still awash in comforting light as she observed halting flakes of snow through frosted glass. A strange hollowness engulfed her, noticing that his scent still covered her hands as she numbly attempted to fix the mess her hair had become. She fought down the abrupt urge to vomit, knowing as she sat in silence that she would never return to this place, its treasured solitude now marred forever by fatal blow.

She had to leave.

She had no memory of fastening buttons, of lacing boots or donning a coat. Her journey back to Downton was a blur, the mindless work of feet who bore her home in spite herself. She spoke only when necessary, barely existing as days progressed into weeks and she received no word from him. And as her path became more and more clear, she buried what remaining hope she had foolishly allowed herself to harbor, a new resolve taking root, one she could no longer afford to ignore. She packed belongings stoically, ignoring the advice offered her until it ceased to come.

Her mind was fixed, her determination to leave Downton set. A new world summoned her, its call rather frightening yet persuasive all the same. She was a Crawley—she would survive.

And she would carve out a life for herself with this remnant left behind.

* * *

_I did warn you that it was angst-ridden...Part III will post next Monday. Thoughts, anyone?_


	3. Chapter 3

_I must first alert you to the fact that I have slightly altered the timeline in this AU, having Mary and Richard's engagement occur slightly before it did in canon (only change of note that does not actually take place during or is referenced as a part of this tale.) I do hope you will forgive me this creative license and simply enjoy the remainder of the story. For clarification, the basic timeline in this story follows canon: _

_Chapter 1-November, 1916_

_Chapter 2-January, 1918_

_Chapter 3-Early September, 1918 (This is based upon the actual Battle of Amiens beginning on Aug. 8, 1918. We are given no date for injured Matthew's arrival at Downton. The date selected for this chapter attempts to factor in initial treatment of the wounded, communication with the family and transportation back to England.)_

_I cannot send out enough thanks to **Orangeshipper ** for her many thoughts and insights into this chapter and the story in general (Girl-you KNOW your S2!), as well as to **patsan** for her wisdom, support and fantastic editing assistance. And to **ultrahotpink** whose prompt somehow morphed into this chapter, I appreciate your patience in awaiting its arrival._

_Prompt: Matthew and Mary-underwater kiss_

_As always, high angst alert. Do swim responsibly. ;)_

* * *

_Early September, 1918_

III.

_He was suspended, floating in a lake alone until he felt a hand slide up his back. She emerged from the water beside him, nothing short of a goddess to his vision, black hair slicked down on wet skin. He could not help but smile at her, relieved at her appearance, warmed by her touch. _

_How he had missed her._

"_Mary…"_

_They kissed as lovers, relishing all the other had to offer as they submerged under the surface. Air seemed unnecessary as knowing hands and lips continued their daring exploration, already marked sensations only heightened by the water's silky texture. He pulled her to his chest, tensing at the feel of her pressed softly against him, unable to breathe at the overwhelming need to clasp her closer still. _

_But she was slipping away from him, drifting to a place he could not follow._

"_Mary!"_

_He could not locate her, attempting with everything he had to return to the surface to seek her out. But he could not move, his limbs stubbornly unresponsive to the commands his mind was issuing as panic rocked his frame._

"Mary."

From his sleep came her name, the plea in his voice unmistakable each time it was cried out. It amazed her that he never sought her own presence in this unconscious state, nor that of his former fiancée. Only hers…only Mary's…over and over again.

Isobel knew he would seek the young woman yet again when he awoke, the despair obvious upon his face when he would remember that she was not here. America, her family had asserted, a trip to her grandmother's to help her get over a broken engagement. But that explanation had never sat comfortably with Mrs. Crawley, the inherent risk of crossing the Atlantic during a war just a bit much for no other reason than to mend a broken heart.

A heart she had never believed was all that attached to Richard Carlisle in the first place.

He began to stir, the increased restlessness a sure sign that he would awaken shortly and be forced to deal with the harsh reality that was now his life. Her son had been lucky to have survived at all, poor William's death felt keenly by the entire household. But his eyes were so lifeless, his existence seemingly pointless in the state in which he now found himself.

Or so he had told her but yesterday.

"Mother."

She looked to him immediately, forcing a cheerful smile upon her face as she squeezed his hand in assurance.

"I'm here, Matthew."

He swallowed, the pastiness of his throat making words difficult as the name she now expected was spoken.

"Mary. Where is Mary?"

How she despised explaining her absence repeatedly, having to experience his expression of disappointment over and over each time she answered this question.

"She's in America, dear. Remember?"

His brows drew together in confusion, marked features clouding over with a remorse that chilled her skin. He made a noise of some sort, whether from physical or emotional discomfort, she could not be certain as unblinking eyes glassed over in obvious regret.

"It's my fault, you know."

This was new, an assertion she was unsure of how to interpret but somehow understood to be important. She leaned towards him quietly, laying a hand atop his arm as she dared further inquiry into what was clearly sensitive territory.

"What's your fault, my dear?"

His eyes took hers on directly, leaving her in no doubt that he knew exactly what he was saying.

"That she's gone. It's my fault."

"She went to America because of Richard, Matthew. Don't you remember? I told you all about it yesterday. She ended their engagement and needed to get away for a while."

A smile with no mirth tilted the side of his face as his gaze fell from hers.

"No. Not Richard—me. She needed to get away from me."

An icy shiver brushed her spine.

"Why on earth would you say such a thing, Matthew? You barely saw Mary the last time you were here."

He grimaced at the lie, having seen more of Mary that afternoon than he had had the right.

"That's not exactly true."

Pain coupled with betrayal, mortification overlapping sorrow—the expression frozen upon wounded dark eyes had torn away at his emotional fabric, haunting him with the fervor of a vengeful specter since the moment he abandoned her in that cabin.

He had never been more ashamed of himself. What right did he have to even utter her name?

"What are you saying, Matthew? Did the two of you argue?"

He could not bear to look at his mother, this woman who still thought him good, the ceiling becoming a screen on which he relived the encounter he wished could be forever erased from his history.

"You could say that."

If only it had been a mere argument. If only he hadn't been so bloody self-righteous, had given her a chance to explain what now seemed to be a matter of less and less importance…

If only he had not appointed himself her judge and jury, acting towards a woman he now knew he loved in a manner that sickened him. And why? Because he had held her to a higher standard than that he kept for himself? Because his inflated male pride demanded that no man but he be given the right to know her in such a manner? Such arrogance now mocked him, forcing him to examine himself in a light that left him despondent.

After all, who had initiated their encounter in that cabin? She had been trying to distance herself from him, attempting to protect herself from further injury. Yet he had tracked her down…

And dealt her a massive blow.

"I treated her horribly, Mother. Perhaps I deserve what has happened to me. It's a rather fitting penance, in more ways than one."

Gooseflesh prickled her arms at his words, his unmerciful sentence upon himself hollowing out her insides.

"Don't say that, Matthew. Your injury is not some sort of divine punishment. It's actually a miracle that you are alive."

A miracle?

The true miracle would be if Mary could ever forgive him. What a coward he had been.

And that was putting it kindly.

"I'm told that Mary is quite well and enjoying her stay in New York. There is no need for you to berate yourself so horribly when she seems to have forgotten whatever it is you fought about and moved on with her life."

A pained chuckle wracked his form, and he stared into a nothingness he willingly accepted as his just desserts.

"I hope she is happy. She deserves to be."

But he somehow knew better. She would never forget the way he had treated her, the scorn he had showered upon her nakedness while she lay beneath him in a most vulnerable state.

His stomach cramped in response to his actions, a wave of nausea passing over him that prompted his mother to offer him a basin as she supported his back. He cringed after emptying the meager contents of his stomach, despising the fact that he could do so little for himself.

And even less for her.

"Perhaps some water will help," Isobel offered, the brightness of her tone an eerie contrast to the concern darkening her face.

A low grunt refuted her suggestion soundly. He had abandoned all hope of redemption the moment he had turned his back on her, rejecting such love offered him in exchange for the jagged rocks of self-righteousness. He had dared to cast a stone, to plant his seed in the soil of moral high ground.

And he had found the harvest bitter, indeed.

"No. Nothing will help me now."

His despondency chilled her lungs.

"You mustn't speak like that. Mary would not like it at all."

He shut his eyes, the blow of her name almost too much from lips other than his own.

"Mary has every reason and right to hate me, Mother. And she's all the wiser for it, believe me."

He closed his eyes to her sharpening glance, but not before the relentless guilt they bore pressed heavily upon her chest. A faint suspicion crawled up her arms, its aftermath birthing a cold knot in her stomach.

"Whatever do you mean, Matthew?"

She sensed the dismissal in his smirk, smarting at the finality of his voice.

"The thing is that I don't deserve her, Mother. I never have."

She could not help but envision a certain downcast, tow-headed boy who had hidden from her in the pantry while her favorite serving dish laid in shattered remnants across the dining room floor. If only she could fix this situation and tend to his wounds as easily as she had then. But cold certainty insisted that what currently tore at his conscience was a matter of much higher significance.

And it was exacting quite a costly toll.

"I don't believe that for a moment, and I'm sure that whatever happened between you and Mary can be worked out with time and patience. Most things can when two people truly care about each other."

He drew a breath that rattled in his chest, his response so quiet she almost wondered if it had been imagined.

"Some things can never be mended."

Blurred innuendos refocused her mind's eye, and she finally saw him as a soldier, a man knowingly trespassing in death's backyard, clinging to tantalizing shards of life even though they bore the ability to cut. Pieces began to fit together, arranging themselves into a picture on which she hesitated to gaze. She somehow knew that he would give her no further details in a last-ditch attempt to shield the very woman he felt beyond his reach. But answers were needed, the truth now a necessity of the highest order.

The time for full disclosure had arrived at Downton on a stretcher in the form of her broken son.

And if her suspicions bore any merit whatsoever, he was not the only one in need of a miracle.

* * *

Isobel returned some time later, not having received all of the knowledge she had sought but thankfully bearing in her possession a most vital piece of information. She strode forward with a purpose, moving past the sea of recovering wounded haltingly instructed to count themselves as fortunate.

Fortunate.

Her son would disagree.

A freshly planted determination to do something for him charged an energy into her step it had lacked since his injury. She could not look upon the other men just now, breezing past them with a honed focus. Matthew needed her, her dear boy was in trouble, and there was nothing she would not do to attempt to right things as best she could.

He was thankfully sleeping again, and she quietly claimed the seat beside his cot, observing the slight movements of his features. He looked troubled even in rest, this son she had once held to her breast now grown into a man with facets hidden from her.

"Mother."

His eyes remained shut, but his voice was clear. Not asleep, then, but on its border, she mused.

"What is it, dear?"

A dry tongue sought cracked lips, eyes groggily opening in an attempt to focus.

"You must let her know."

Her heart sped imperceptibly as she leaned in close, his request taking on the intonation of one quite personal. Might he possibly just admit the root of his self-reproach in this state of semi-awareness?

She half-feared what he would say.

"Mary, you mean?" she questioned unnecessarily. "What is it I should tell her?"

His breathing became more rapid, fingers clenching and unclenching his blanket at the importance of his summons. A sharp grimace halted his words, bringing her swiftly to his side as she waited for the spasm to pass. Cruel tremors eventually began to ebb, clinging stubbornly to one arm she clasped firmly to herself, absorbing his discomfort with the relentless determination of a mother.

"There now," she breathed through a constricted throat, soothing a wayward lock of hair from his eyes. "Is that better?"

A response was slow in forming, the fight to release it physical.

"You must tell her, Mother."

Blue eyes focused directly, rapid breathing slowing in its tempo as his plea was issued yet again.

"Tell her what, Matthew? That you're sorry for something?"

He squeezed her hand, attempting to press upon her the importance of his words. His gaze drifted fleetingly before crystalizing yet again with obvious effort.

"That I could never despise her."

Despise her? Mary?

She drew breath at the unexpectedness of his statement, perceiving its urgency even from his half-conscious mind.

"Don't worry, dear. I shall take care of everything."

He nodded slowly, her assurance seeming to settle him as he finally gave into the blessed pull of sleep. But her thoughts were racing, tripping over each other as she attempted to think through what had to be done immediately.

Just how complicated a situation was she facing?

Leaving him would be difficult, but his physical care would simply have to be entrusted to the doctors and nurses on hand. His emotional needs were another story, however, and she knew she must proceed with a high amount of caution.

She was stepping into an area shrouded in gray, a hidden realm to which she had received no invitation. How Mary would respond to her presumptiveness was uncertain at best and held the distinct possibility of being blatantly hostile. But the time for action had come…things left to chance far too long.

And as she fixed her resolve on the mission ahead, she could only hope that her well-intended interference would bring about more healing than damage.

* * *

_Thoughts you care to share?_


	4. Chapter 4

_I have been simply overwhelmed by the responses I have received to this story. Thank you so very much for all of the messages here, on tumblr and especially for the precious reviews. :) I do try to answer reviews personally, but for those of you who review anonymously or do not enable PM's here in the realm of ff, let me offer my deepest gratitude for your words of encouragement and thoughts about the story. They mean the world to me, even if I cannot tell you that personally._

_I simply must offer most special thanks to the amazing **Orangeshipper** for her overwhelming support and fantastic insights into this story! Thank you so much for reading several versions of this chapter over and over again as I tried to get it right. :) I owe you several cups of tea, my friend! And to the fabulous **patsan** for her support, deep thoughts and wise words...we must have coffee soon!_

_I originally envisioned this as a 5-part tale, but it will undoubtedly go six, and perhaps even seven. So Chapter 5 will not be the final __installment_ as I had originally intended. I do hope that is alright. I hope it will post in one week, but if not, it will undoubtedly the following Monday. :)

_So we last left Matthew injured and guilt-ridden and Isobel confused yet determined. Shall we now catch up with Mary?_

* * *

She grimaced at her body's continued discomfort, shutting her eyes in denial as she rubbed her temples soundly.

Getting out of bed had become a true effort. Sleep had cruelly mocked her yet again, the irritating rays of morning sun peeking through her drapes making her all the more irritable as they basked in taunting cheer. Her head began its routine pounding, and she grasped the large glass of water left by her bedside, gulping it greedily as she waited for it to perform its magic. She was weary, overwhelmed, uncertain of where her life was taking her.

And everything just ached.

Mary knew she didn't look well. As if her own mirror did not attest loudly enough to that fact, Mrs. Jacobs made certain to remind her of it nearly every waking hour. The past few days had been especially physically trying upon her, and she had finally sent for the doctor, as much to silence her overly-protective housekeeper as from any real thought that the local physician could offer any measure of relief.

She had actually laughed when kindly Dr. Meadows had inquired how well she had been sleeping, her merriment quickly morphing into tears she could not curtail as exhaustion took its toll. The poor man had taken it all in stride, giving her hand a fatherly pat as he simply allowed her a good cry. He then gently ordered her to increase her food intake and to rest more frequently, reassuring her that she should feel like her old self again after a few weeks if she followed his advice.

Her old self…if only it were that easy.

Her appetite had fled the moment his eyes had flown open in shock, continually decreasing in the weeks that followed until she finally made her decision to begin life anew away from Downton. It had improved somewhat over the months, but food somehow had never regained its former flavor or appeal. She ate because it was necessary, drank to sustain life, waking continually to dawns that held little promise.

And sleep? If only she could clasp it to her breast, allow herself to be warmly lulled into an oblivion without interruption. Yet her own life taunted her in that arena to the point that she was now on speaking terms with the stars upon which she gazed while pacing her bedroom floor. Night brought nothing but agony. As the sun made its escape, every drop of self-recrimination she attempted to shelve during daylight's healing rays crept out of hiding, descending upon a soul already weary with a cruel zeal. She continually cursed her own weakness, wrapping herself in weighted reproach that did nothing but exhaust her.

How vastly different her life would now be if she had possessed the fortitude to step away from Matthew rather than giving herself to a man who was not her own with such abandon.

How might circumstance have altered between them had she admitted everything to him when he first proposed?

And what if she had simply chosen to scream when Kemal Pamuk entered her bedroom…

Her bed had become a traitor, her sleep interrupted with a frequency that steadily increased. Her mind was now her enemy, assaulting her in the darkness with inquiries too personal for the daylight as months of continued silence had worn on her.

Was he still engaged?

Had they married and no one dared tell her?

Was he alive?

Would anyone tell her if he wasn't?

His name was strangely absent from all correspondence, left out of any conversation with a deliberation that had begun to make her worry.

She was quite certain it was her mother's doing.

Cora had taken great pains to help her get settled, spending weeks with her as she assisted in hiring a small household staff, organizing the small but elegant home, and actually taking time to attempt to draw her daughter into one conversation after another. Depression, her mother had asserted, a condition that Lady Grantham had been determined to help her overcome through activity and household management. Mary had actually found great comfort in her presence, coming to rely upon Cora's care and gentle conversation in a manner quite unexpected. Perhaps it was because her mother was the sole person who knew the entirety of her situation, that pretense was blissfully unnecessary as she had nothing further to hide. There were moments when she had even managed a smile, a feat she was certain her mother saw as a measure of personal success.

A new wardrobe had been compiled, one still suitable for an earl's daughter yet unassuming enough to afford her the ability to blend into to her new surroundings. Mary had been adamant that no one here be allowed to connect her to her past, taking on a name with no title and adopting the façade of a heart-broken widow who had lost her husband to the war. Her status had earned her some local sympathy and silenced any speculation concerning a young woman living alone. Yet she kept almost completely to herself, still not ready to take up permanent residence in this unknown territory as she knew she would eventually need to do.

Yet she even now shivered at the memory of her initial confession, still shaken in reliving that moment of disclosure behind a shut door when she voiced to her mother why she could not stay. She could stomach it no longer while he remained attached to Lavinia, had lost the strength to continue the farce of having true feelings for Richard…

All because of what had transpired in that cabin.

She had sworn Lady Grantham to secrecy, unable to face just how disappointed her father would be with his golden heir if he were aware of what had happened between them.

And how devastated he would be knowing his daughter had fallen…twice.

How else would he understand why Matthew had walked away from her with no proposal? No letters? No, her father would have had to have been made privy to another night of folly, another splotch on his eldest's reputation in order to fathom Matthew's rejection of her and the difficult choices thrust into her life.

Matthew's dismissal had been painful enough. Her father's would cripple her entirely.

Cora had suggested America, a clean start in a new world. But Mary had quickly refused such a notion, choosing to travel north rather than across the Atlantic. She told herself that remaining in England would keep her steady, that being somewhat close to family would afford her a tenuous connection to the girl she had been even as she began her life as a woman she did not yet know.

But the truth was that she could not yet imagine being a continent away from him, even though a part of her wanted to banish his presence from her memory forever. She could never escape him, no matter how far she ran. He had etched his very being inside of her even as he had stared down at her in disgust, binding himself to her in a distorted manner from which she would never be free.

"Damn you, Matthew Crawley."

Had she actually said it out loud? Mary looked around her bedroom, sighing into its emptiness as she made her way to the vanity and began to brush her hair. Evans predictably arrived within minutes, taking up the tasks of a part-time lady's maid as she did every morning. She was no substitute for Anna, but her soothing conversation coupled with a kindness of spirit was a comfort, all the same.

Sounds of life stirring elsewhere in the house eventually beckoned her from her seat, and she grasped them as a lifeline, stepping away from the precarious cliff of despondency over which she peered too often. Looking back served no purpose now.

No. It was time to move forward.

She walked through her morning duties in an unhurried manner, noticing little things that had too long remained unseen. Her senses had oddly become heightened to the slightest of touches, the smallest of sounds.

There had been recent moments of stolen peace that had taken her by surprise, a shred of hope that would clasp her by the finger in a small token of promise. Life had begun to tug at her in a manner unknown, demanding that she pay attention, unleashing a fullness in her chest that would nearly render her breathless at times. A fleeting softness touched her face, a smile appearing that somehow infused a measure of profound strength.

If only she knew what to do with it all.

Private musings were startled by an insistent knocking upon her front door, drawing her from her seat in an unsettling fashion. There were no scheduled deliveries for today, no visitors expected.

And then came a voice that stilled her heart.

Isobel.

Dear God, what was she to do?

She cringed, rooting herself to the floor as her pulse became deafening. Timing was vital, and Mary wondered frantically if she could somehow keep this meeting short enough to ensure no damage was done. Two duties struggled for dominance, forcing her to lay one quietly aside as she took up the unwanted mantle of hostess. She swallowed resolutely, taking a breath to steady herself as she haltingly made her way to the top of the staircase.

If there was no way to avoid this meeting, she might as well be done with it quickly.

She only prayed she would give nothing away.

Each footfall echoed in her ears, and she nearly faltered the moment Mrs. Crawley's form became visible. The older woman turned in her direction, smiling at her a bit too brightly as Mary's insides began to churn.

It was as if she were standing in another world…another life…such a tangible tie to the man she was attempting to forget standing physically before her. Mary bristled at the scrutiny of eyes focused much too keenly, steeling her own gaze as she steadied her legs determinedly.

"Mary, my dear, how good it is to see you. Please forgive my unexpected call. I hope I didn't catch you at an inconvenient time."

Isobel was startled by the younger woman's appearance, the lack of color upon her cheeks only heightened by distinct dark circles smudging her eyes. That she was uncomfortable with her unexpected arrival was palpable.

Extreme caution would indeed be prudent.

"How did you find me?"

Mary had no time for pretense or polite conversation, cutting to the quick of the matter with a tenaciousness Isobel could not help but admire.

"Your mother. She gave me your address."

Mary drew back slightly, physically stunned by what she considered an absolute betrayal.

Why would her mother do such a thing?

"What else did she tell you?"

Dark eyes watched Isobel warily, the young woman before her still clinging to the banister that held her upright while effectively blocking the staircase.

"Only your location, dear. And she would not have done so had I truly given her a choice."

Relief and confusion descended hand-in-hand, spurring her to ask yet another question even as she feared where further conversation might lead.

"What do you mean?"

Isobel took another cautious step towards her, marking her words carefully.

"Matthew has been asking for you incessantly. He is quite determined to locate you."

Her ire crested, his nerve in this belated quest granting her a modicum of strength.

"And if I don't wish to be located? Everyone was to be informed that I had gone to America."

"And we were, dear," Isobel returned quietly. "But I had to make sure. Matthew misses you terribly, you see."

"Matthew? Misses me?"

The questions were punctuated with noise of disbelief as she shook her head adamantly in denial.

"He made it quite clear that he wanted nothing more to do with me the last time I saw him, Isobel. I cannot fathom that he has so drastically changed his mind."

Dark eyes narrowed with a flash of steel, daring Mrs. Crawley to challenge what had just been declared with subdued ferocity.

"War changes things, Mary."

As if she weren't well aware of that fact. This war had changed her life beyond recognition.

It had cost her everything.

"Perhaps he should discuss those changes with Lavinia," she bit back, drawing herself up as tall as she could. "She is the woman he is to marry, after all. I would only be in the way."

Sharp bitterness permeated each syllable, any attempt at indifference now cast aside.

"He ended his engagement to Lavinia months ago. Did no one tell you?"

She suddenly felt suspended, the room and everything within it frozen in time. Even the railing within her grip lost its texture as she formulated a response.

"No."

Why had her mother not written to her about this? Had she feared what the news might do to her? Launched a misguided attempt to protect her from further heart-ache or shattered hopes?

"He wrote to her not long after you left, actually," Isobel volunteered, watching Mary's expression all too closely. "Told her that she deserved a better life than she would have with him and that he was releasing her from their understanding."

Of course, Lavinia deserved a better life. Lavinia deserved a future with a measure of hope.

But she? What was it Matthew felt she deserved?

Was she living it already? The thought made her shiver in a cold rage.

"And this gives him the right to summon me back to Downton?"

"I don't know any of the particulars about what occurred at your last meeting, but I know he feels dreadfully about how things were left between the two of you. He wants to make amends, my dear," Isobel explained, noting her attempt at lowering Mary's hostility had gone horribly awry.

Her chest was heaving, unwanted tears pricking the corners of her eyes as months of repressed hostility finally found a voice.

"I'm not concerned with what he wants, anymore. He's done quite enough already."

The words were launched in a fury, nearly knocking Isobel over with the force of deep injury.

"I actually left my home, my family, distanced myself from everything I know so he could move on with Lavinia. And I have worked extremely hard to build something for myself away from him, on my own. I cannot be expected to uproot my life every time he changes his mind, no matter how badly he feels!"

She was suddenly spent, all fight gone from her as she fought back tears with a will of iron now melting at an alarming rate.

"Can't he just leave me alone?"

To say she was shaken would have been a gross understatement. Isobel stood somewhat stunned by the extent to which this woman so loved by her son had been wounded by him.

An unnatural quiet settled upon the room, the sounds wafting from the kitchen the only noise to be heard. Mary wished she had a drink, something strong and stout to take the edge off of pain freshly exposed.

"Forgive me, Isobel. I know that none of what happened between Matthew and me was of your doing."

The fragile state of her voice drew her, compelling Mrs. Crawley to dare reaching out. She touched Mary's arm, concerned at its cool, clammy texture, noting again the heavy weight in her eyes before the younger woman spoke.

"Perhaps it would be best if you left."

It was neither a simple request, nor an angry retort. It was a plea born of desperation.

But one she must choose to ignore.

"Mary, I wouldn't have travelled all this way to see you if it weren't important."

Confusion and frustration fought for dominance as Isobel's words were processed, both crumbling to ash as something worse sank in merciless talons. Cold fear gripped her, stilling her heart, squeezing her throat as she clutched the railing in a brutal vice.

"Is he alright?"

Her expression begged for an answer. And Isobel was now certain.

This woman loved her son.

"He's been injured, Mary."

He gaze rounded, breathing suddenly difficult as the room narrowed around her.

"What?"

Isobel dared a step in her direction, as much out of concern for Mary's physical strength as her own desire to read her.

"His spine has been bruised, my dear."

Splotches dotted her vision, the sensation of sinking nearly overwhelming her as hands quickly guided her to a chair. Matthew…spinal damage…it could not be.

"Breathe, Mary. That's it. Nice and steady, my dear."

Her head was still spinning, and she dropped it to her lap, trying to absorb the truth, to shut it out, to keep herself from crumbling when the glue holding her together had lost its grip.

She heard footsteps followed by a whisper from Mrs. Jacobs as a glass of water was pressed into her palm.

"Drink this, Mary. It might help."

Shaky hands guiding the cup to her lips, the cold liquid steadying her body as her insides twisted themselves into a crumpled knot.

"How bad is it?"

The question was barely audible yet insistent. No matter how pained the expression staring up at her, Isobel knew that directness was required.

"He can feel nothing from the waist down."

What little color she had drained from her immediately. Her hand covered her mouth in an effort to comprehend, to ward off nausea, to take back words of condemnation she had just unleashed.

"Oh, God."

A surge of grief spilled over floodgates of protection, tears pressing out of her with an audible wail. Her body shook from sobbing, feeling the assurance of an arm around her shoulder, a hand atop of her own as a part of her soul was severed.

How long they sat there, weeping, clasping, comforting, neither knew. The ticking of the clock seemed unnaturally loud, and Mary bit back the temptation to throw her glass in its direction. Everything she knew had been demolished yet again, hatred she had attempted to whet into precision now no studier than a paper hat.

She finally stood, her brow creased tightly as a decision was reached. She made for the stairs, pausing in a wordless summons for Mrs. Crawley to follow despite the incessant pounding in her chest.

Isobel deserved an explanation. And the truth was now much too persistent to escape.

A quiet path was traversed to a small room nestled in the corner. Here Mary paused, resting a hand upon the door's surface before daring to enter its warm confines. They were now afforded absolute privacy, and she led Isobel purposefully towards the back wall where her reality was confronted in a manner most humbling.

Hushed whispers confided what Isobel had feared to learn, Mary's dark gaze fixed upon what she had fought so fiercely to conceal. The past was received with sealed lips by a woman too overcome by competing emotions to utter a sound.

They stood in absolute silence, a delicate camaraderie forming in the room's recesses. The enormity of what was facing them stared up at Isobel unblinkingly, shaking her in a manner that rendered her speechless. Mary looked at her with a question, and she nodded in response, willingly accepting the burden entrusted to her with steady hands. She marveled at the strength of the young woman before her even as she ached for all she had faced alone.

And all that Matthew would face upon her return.

"Come back with me, Mary."

The request was whispered, met with a glance neither surprised at its utterance nor hopeful in its outlook.

"I can't yet. It's too soon. I'm not strong enough."

There was no anger in her assertion, only a frank honesty Isobel accepted with no rebuttal.

"You've been through quite an ordeal, my dear, and recovery does take time. When you've regained your strength, we shall journey together, if you wish."

A single word struck her, its impact widening her gaze in confusion.

"We?"

Eyes met unflinchingly, an enormous gesture traversing the space between them.

"I shall stay and help you recover if you will allow me to do so, Mary. I should like to assist you in any way that I can."

Mary shook her head, attempting to process too much, too soon as one question fled her lips.

"What of Matthew? Don't you need to be with him?"

The clenching of her heart was almost painful, the need to be at his side quite pressing, even as she knew she could not leave Mary as she had found her.

"Matthew has round-the-clock care from a staff of professionals. As much as I miss him, he can manage without me a while longer."

She leaned in closer, pressing forward ever so slightly.

"But just who is looking after you, my dear?"

The stifling silence of the room was her sole response.

A small cry was then uttered, a growing ache in her breasts compelling Mary to sit down. Isobel moved towards her, bending over the younger woman as a wordless transaction was made with tender assurance.

"You can stay."

Words offered quietly took her by surprise, but the need before her was obvious. Isobel squeezed Mary's shoulder, fighting back the tears cresting at the cusp as she nodded firmly.

"He did have something quite particular that he wanted me to tell you," Isobel wavered, wondering if a direct word from Matthew would be helpful or destructive. She hesitated, waiting for a reaction.

Mary braced herself, seeing with startling clarity his face before her, sensing the exquisite softness of golden hair wafting between her fingers, closing her eyes as the past and present merged in a manner most profound. She breathed it all in, clasping him physically to her chest before turning her attention back to Isobel. "Tell me."

Mrs. Crawley paused, her mouth suddenly dry as the statement's magnitude took root.

"He said that he could never despise you."

A lip quivered, eyes sealing themselves against the force of pressing tears. Words deserted Mary, an almost imperceptible nod her sole acceptance of this offering.

She could manage no more.

Isobel exited the room, giving Mary some needed privacy after the ordeal of exposing so much. Her own nerves were raw, her soul weary yet full as she dared to think of the road before them. But too much was at stake to even consider backing down now.

How welcome was the wall against her back, how thankful she was for its steadiness and coolness of texture. She shut her eyes firmly, seeing Matthew's broken body, sensing Mary's broken spirit. Yet between the two there existed something of exquisite beauty, untouched by the hurt that had marred them, perfected in a breath-taking wonder. Her attention was commanded by yet another sob from the room, this one low and guttural, the unmistakable cry of a woman in pieces attempting to hold herself together for one she loved more than herself.

And Isobel knew that this precious new life, just days old and so very small, would now be latched on to her breast, resting in utter contentment as his mother fell slowly apart.

* * *

_A penny for your thoughts? _


	5. Chapter 5

_I was completely overwhelmed with the response to Chapter 4! Thank you from the bottom of my heart for the most lovely reviews and pm's I received. It took some time to craft it in the manner I had envisioned, and to know that it worked was a bit of a thrill, I must admit. (The title of this story applies to more than just the plot. ;) _

_I had one reviewer request a reply to a question, but I was unable to respond because her private messaging feature was not enabled. Please understand I was not ignoring your request..I do try to answer every review and question. To those of you who reviewed as guests or with pm's disabled, let me extend my heart-felt thanks to you right now. Your thoughts truly matter, and reviews absolutely make my day!_

_Special thanks to **Orangeshipper** and **patsan** for their eagle eyes, in-depth thoughts and support for this story. You two are just too wonderful for words!_

_*Author's note: At the end of this chapter, you will notice that **Matthew's point of view moves into italics**. FF would not allow me to format this chapter in the same manner I did in Word, so italics seemed to be my best option. Page breaks looked choppy, and bold was just too much. If this is confusing at the moment, you will see exactly what I mean when you reach the final portion of the chapter. I do hope everyone is able to follow it with ease._

_That being said, I do hope you enjoy Chapter 5. :)_

* * *

Just how long they had been travelling, she honestly could not say. But every click of motion across tracks supporting them, every vibration of wheels pulsing beneath her feet resounded one fact:

They were drawing closer to Downton.

She sat peering out of the window, watching the landscape dart past as the train moved steadily forward. Yet she saw nothing, absorbed by the awareness of the small life nestled warmly in her lap, horribly unsure of their impending final destination. The pounding of her heart had not stilled since dawn's insistent arrival, nerves trailing her about like a pesky stray canine. She would have forsaken breakfast all together had Isobel not been so insistent, gently reminding her just how ill she would become later when her son robbed her body of needed nourishment in order to partake of his own.

Adults may forget to eat, she had been instructed. But children do not.

She hadn't the will to argue over it, her mind overly occupied with thoughts of the day before her. It was rather daunting, actually, returning to Downton in the role of an unwed mother. This was not the expected fate of the daughter of an earl. No, bearing a child out of wedlock happened to scullery maids, or to the butcher's daughter, possibly to a well-born girl if one of her parents were foreign or rather eccentric. It was not supposed to have happened to her, the eldest daughter whose advantageous marriage was to have secured her sisters' futures.

But it had. And here she sat.

Her head began to ache as she envisioned seeing her father, speaking with her grandmother…

Facing him.

It wasn't just seeing him again that was so unsettling…it was that she would see him injured. What would that do to her, to actually confront him when he was unable to stand in her presence? How would he feel about what she had to say when he could no longer feel his own legs? Would she be able to reveal to him things hidden, knowing how their knowledge would tear at a man already broken?

Yet he had broken a part of her, splintered her into so many fragments that the mere effort to reassemble them seemed too daunting to even attempt.

But an attempt had to be made, even if the resulting creation was hideously fractured and lacking in refinement.

For she was no longer alone.

Details had been arranged between Cora and Isobel, as little laid upon Mary's shoulders as possible at the insistence of both women. She knew that they were to meet her mother at Crawley house where privacy was more easily ensured and reputations more readily guarded. At least her initial re-entrance into the village would be fairly subdued, her mother and Isobel still the only people who knew the full measure of her predicament. But that would change within moments of their arrival.

Word would spread quickly, perhaps through a servant, perhaps via a neighbor noticing more than she should and construing the rest. No matter how it began, the end result would be the same. She would be branded a lady of easy virtue, a title she had owned privately for years, no matter the bravado displayed for the benefit of the few privy to sordid details. She had already resigned herself to censure, to condemnation, knowing just how she would be viewed by those around her.

A social pariah.

Such labels she would somehow shoulder, would attempt to shut out of her consciousness as best she could and move on with as much dignity as could be mustered. Yet the thought of her child living under such notoriety, being seen as somehow less worthy or impure...

This she could not stomach.

The baby stirred against her, nuzzling closer to the protection of her breast as he slept. She stared at him in a wonder still foreign, amazed at how something so small could demand so very much. Her fingers whispered across the fair down of his head, cradling close this little person who had done absolutely nothing for her yet had commanded her heart from the moment he entered her life.

She had been prepared to resent him as she had during her pregnancy, to fear his presence, to experience the need to escape this responsibility thrust upon her as she had often wished to discard the confines of her life. But to love him with a passionate ferocity she still found quite terrifying…

This was unexpected.

His first cry had brought tears of unprecedented relief, the worries of life ahead of them overcome by the wonder of life itself. The sensation of new skin cradled against her own, of witnessing the first breaths of this being who had dwelled inside of her had engulfed her in a manner unknown. She was a new person now, her existence no longer her own but a lifeline for this tiny human who would know her as no one else ever had.

As his mother.

The title still felt odd, like a dress that did not quite fit or shoes that rubbed uncomfortably. She had always assumed that a certain amount of knowledge would accompany entrance into that mystic realm of motherhood, that certain questions would be answered intrinsically, that a mantle of assurance would somehow be draped upon one's shoulders.

She could not have been more wrong.

He stirred slightly, puckerd lips moving in a sucking motion even as he slept. She could not help but rub his cheek, draw him closer, inhale his scent that calmed her as nothing else in her life could. He was beautiful, so like his father yet a separate person altogether. And when his soft head rested trustingly on her chest, when a tiny nose would burrow in closer, when cobalt eyes would open and gaze at her as if he already knew exactly who she was to him, she felt her heart both swell and shatter at the same moment.

Was this how it was for every mother? Had it been this way for her own?

He was so very helpless, yet she felt even more so, despising herself knowing that she would be the cause of blame and censure for a small life who knew no sin. How cruel that children should be marked by the trespasses of their parents, as if they had any say in the choices made by adults who should have known better. Her shame was her own—not his.

Never his.

She shuddered, such thoughts chilling her through her coat, and she held him even closer, guarding him as best she could, knowing with a sickening twist in her stomach that it would never be enough.

"Calm yourself, Mary. There is no need to work yourself into a frenzy before we even arrive."

Isobel's words cut through her musings, forcing her to turn her head from the mindless scenery flashing past her window.

"Easier said than done," Mary stated flatly, looking to this woman who had quickly become so vital to her life. She honestly wasn't sure how well she would have borne up over the past few weeks had it not been for the presence and watch-care of Matthew's mother.

"I know this is quite daunting for you, my dear, and I'd be lying if I told you that you won't have any difficulties before you," Isobel returned, laying a hand gently on Mary's arm. "But you won't have to face them alone. Of that, I can assure you."

Mrs. Crawley had become quite her champion, assuring her repeatedly that she and Matthew were by far not the only couple to become premature parents, especially during a time of war. She had questioned her only once about Pamuk, and Mary had related the incident with a blunt honesty, observing Isobel purse her lips together in silence until she had run out of words. She had then sealed her eyes, tensing her shoulder in preparation for the harsh impact of words of reprimand and censure.

But what she received nearly knocked her to her knees.

_My dear girl, I am so sorry you had to endure that. How brave you have been all these years._

Brave?

The mere word had left her thunder-struck.

Had she been truly brave, she would have screamed. Had she the courage, she would have told Matthew the truth of her circumstances after he had proposed. No—bravery was beyond her, she feared, pushed out of the way in order to accommodate uncertainty, vanity, and the basic will to survive.

Only the noble were brave, and she harbored no claim to such aspirations.

"All will work out in the end, Mary. You must allow yourself to believe that."

Must she?

Isobel was certain that Matthew would love the baby instantly, would want to do the right thing by both of them. But Mary feared it would not be that easy, wasn't even certain of what the right thing would be in such a disjointed situation as they had created. Mrs. Crawley had not witnessed the flash of horror in his eyes as bodies had merged, had not felt the blistering accusation of words thrown with the intention to strike. She had not shivered at the blast of winter's air rushing across naked skin as the door was effectively shut to any future they might have.

No, the gaping wounds they both now bore were still as tender as they moment they were inflicted, and a forced marriage under such circumstances...

She could not even envision it.

Would he ever see past that moment of realization, that second when her life became a shell as he saw her in the manner she most feared?

And could she move past the image of his back, bare and faceless, the only part of him of which he deemed her worthy after her secret became known?

She honestly did not know. And she was not at all certain that the answer would do either of them any good.

* * *

"Matthew."

He turned his head, refusing to move the wheels of his bloody chair in silent protest to its confines.

"Cousin Cora. How nice to see you."

His voice matched the dullness of his eyes.

Her visit was rather unexpected, quite honestly, as Lady Grantham seemed to have been avoiding him purposefully for weeks on end. At first, Matthew had suspected his injury, that his paralysis simply made the countess too uncomfortable, or perhaps his condition embarrassed her as an anointed heir of Downton who could be out-walked by a toddler. Robert seemed to be bearing up all right, but perhaps her female sensibilities were rather more affected by his injury.

He then sighed in defeat, shaking his head at his legalistic need to formulate a reason for her noticeable absence. What did it matter? He couldn't blame her for staying away. Why would anyone seek out his company?

He had nothing to offer anymore.

"How are you, Matthew?"

There was an intensity to her stare that did not match the soft lilt of her voice. The contrast made him swallow uncomfortably.

"Right as rain, just as one would expect."

She did not bat an eye at the deliberate sarcasm, pursing her lips slightly as she stepped in his direction.

"I'm glad to hear it. If there is anything I can do to make your recovery any smoother, you must let me know."

Her gaze did not waver, and Matthew had a disjointed notion that she meant just the opposite.

"Thank you, Cousin Cora, but let me assure you that my every need is being well met."

"I am relieved."

She smiled, yet she didn't, drawing closer even as he felt the distinct confines of an impenetrable wall rise up between them.

Then it struck him, paralysis gripping him in yet another manner:

Had Mary confided in her mother?

Oh, God. Did Cora actually know?

Clammy palms gripped the arms of his chair, this device that now served as his legs, bracing himself for nothing more than what he most readily deserved.

"Is there something you need from me?"

Her eyes narrowed yet another fraction at his inquiry, the smile that wasn't vanishing as if it had never existed.

"Your mother called a while ago," she began, drawing his attention at this unexpected news.

"She would like to have you driven to Crawley house later this afternoon to meet with her."

Transported? To Crawley House?

"I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't understand," he returned, shaking his head slightly. "Why wouldn't she just come here? Maneuvering me from one place to another requires a bit of effort these days."

He hated the self-pity that permeated his tone, but it was all he had. If he let it go, he was overcome with grief, shame, and a self-loathing that would wither his bones into nothing but brittle ashes. Better to be frozen in pity rather than alive to a slow death.

"Your mother has been travelling quite a distance, Matthew, and would prefer the luxury of being in her own home," Cora stated flatly, a hidden layer of accusation leering at him through her tone. "And I'm certain that you would enjoy a break from Downton. Surely these walls must get a bit confining for you. I cannot imagine just how utterly dreadful it would feel to be cut off from the people I love, afraid to venture out into the world around me."

The remark sliced him open, her weapon of choice quickly concealed in a half-smile that chilled his spine. But she had not finished.

"Always afraid of what people truly thought."

He now harbored no doubts. Lady Grantham was fully aware of what had taken place between him and her daughter. And she had just declared him guilty as charged.

"Are you that anxious to be rid of me?"

She actually did smile at this remark, the chilling smile of Nemesis herself bearing divine retribution in her wake.

"No. I'm anxious for you to wake up."

She turned and left him then, rendering him as shaken as he had felt in the trenches. His heart pulsed rapidly at the sudden understanding that there were things hidden lying in wait, unseen consequences yet to be administered. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, and he could once again smell the smoke of battle, the stench of death sickening him as his hands began to tremble. He closed his eyes, trying to block it out, to see nothing but _her_…but Mary.

His eyes shot open.

Even she convicted him, as she had every right to do. He had held his own happiness in his arms, cherishing the miracle of it but fleetingly before discarding it as he would soiled clothing.

And why? Because its details were not as he had always imagined? Because for one cursed moment in time, he had given himself permission to believe himself her superior?

"You damned fool."

Words of accusation thrown at himself struck with a dull thud, hitting a shell of a man who had neither the hope nor ability to even attempt to right what he had so wronged. Perhaps Mary was getting on well in America. He prayed she was happy, hoped she had been able to lay what was his shame aside and hold her head high as she deserved to do.

He clutched his hands tightly in his lap, attempting to squelch the tremors, hanging his head at his own bloody self-righteousness. Mary was lucky to be rid of him, would have every right to fling him aside without a second glance if their paths ever crossed again. Without him, she stood a chance of building a life for herself, one free of shackles that would chain her to a man now no more than a burden.

His body slumped in his chair, the weight of utter defeat pulling him under.

Nothing could help him now.

* * *

They had arrived.

Oh, dear God.

She could not will her feet to move, nor instruct her legs to hold her upright. Her mind was numb, heart frantic, breathing stilled. In fact the only parts of her body that seemed to be functioning properly were arms that pressed her son even tighter against her shoulder as she stared disembodied through a glass barrier.

Isobel stood resolutely, offering her a tight smile, a nod of encouragement.

"Here we are. Are you ready?"

She could only shake her head at the reality awaiting her.

"No. But that really doesn't matter, does it."

Eyes looking back at her were compassionate but honest in their wordless reply.

She finally managed it, willing her spine to straighten, her gaze to focus and cut. The softness of his head met with trembling lips as she resolutely stepped into an old life bound by new confines.

She looked at no one, walking in silence as she sheltered her bundle closer, ever closer to her. Then her path was interrupted, her steps hijacked by a face she both dreaded and welcomed. She felt every limb liquefy at once, drawing her first full breath in what felt like days.

And she sank into her mother's ready embrace, pinpricks of moisture gathering in her lashes.

"Oh, Mary. My Mary."

There was something new here between them, an understanding birthed with her child and nurtured at her breast. A translucent connection had been spun through the passing of her own lifeblood into another, fastened securely by the reality of seeing her very heart dwell outside the constraints of flesh and bone.

"Mama."

The boy blinked as the tears of his grandmother dripped onto his cheek, a hand until now unknown resting gently on his head as another held fast to his mother's shoulder. This physical binding blazed into her bones, its power almost divine to a soul deprived of the touch of family.

"Come, now. Let's get you two to Crawley House."

They moved with efficiency, stopping for neither greetings nor inquiries, thankful that the station was sparsely populated at this time of day. The car awaited them, ready to bear them to their destination in absolute discretion.

"Welcome home, my lady."

She turned abruptly into the direct gaze of Tom Branson, expecting a sneer masked in his expression, a nose upturned or a knowing look. But his sincere smile nearly buckled her legs as its warmth infused her chest inexplicably.

"Thank you, Branson. I'm afraid we cannot stay for very long."

"More's the pity, then."

Unexpected.

She nodded in turn, sliding into the car carefully with her charge. A sense of protection engulfed her as she sat surrounded by those who cared despite her circumstances. And a rising fierceness began to push up from bitter roots, the steel resolve of her grandmother flooding veins in need of reinforcements.

She would protect her son somehow. She would find a way for him, no matter how it stretched her, no matter what it demanded. Her heart thudded painfully as she swallowed down misgivings.

And she sought desperately for the strength to face his father.

* * *

"I don't understand."

Matthew sat immobile allowing Bates to finish the fine details deemed necessary for an outing to his own home.

"What's there to understand? Your mother would like to see you."

Matthew sighed in limp frustration, utterly convinced that he was being manipulated to an end unseen. And his mother was evidently the chief engineer in this plot, a fact that kept poking at him uncomfortably.

He had not seen her in weeks, her rather hasty exit from Downton explained as an urgent need to tend to the wounded. It had baffled him, quite honestly, that she would so willingly toss his injuries aside in favor of nursing soldiers unknown. He had been rather speechless at her announcement, unable to formulate an intelligent question to ascertain exactly what had prompted such a decision.

And he had been more than a little hurt.

"She can just as easily see me here with much less inconvenience to everyone," he retorted, wearing his foul mood as a badge of courage.

"I should think you might like to get away from Downton for a bit," Bates responded unflinchingly, making final adjustments to Matthew's shoes. "You might just enjoy some time at home."

Mortification again engulfed him as he viewed ministrations he could not feel.

Useless.

"There's nothing for me out there, Bates. Not anymore."

His voice was the texture of sandpaper, his shoulders bowed in resignation.

"Then I would suggest that perhaps you haven't looked hard enough."

A chuckle without mirth escaped him, and he rubbed his upper lip in frustration.

"Looking further would do me no good. I am cursed, you see. Cursed by my own bloody thoughtlessness."

Bates paused a moment, thinking loudly enough in the heavy silence to command Matthew's attention.

"If I may, sir, misfortune is not necessarily a curse. But it can open our eyes to what's truly important if we allow it."

The assertion caught his attention, snapping him into an alert stance as he replayed Cora's words from earlier.

_I'm anxious for you to wake up._

What was there for him to wake up to, exactly? A life devoid of function? Bearing the distinctive title of the heir who would never have an heir?

Or more honestly a man who didn't deserve a family.

"Well, you're certainly welcome to your opinion."

His gut clenched at his own statement, wincing at the pathetic heap he had become. The truth was, he wasn't even certain he wanted to face his own mother, wondering just how much longer he could play out this charade before she discovered the distasteful truth about her only child. What a gaping disappointment she would face.

God, how he hated himself. How could anyone else feel otherwise?

* * *

Mary stared upon a world familiar yet unknown, almost as if the village itself had been taken apart stone by stone and re-crafted into the backdrop of a Greek tragedy brought to life. She herself had been thrust into the role of tragic heroine, she supposed, the script penned by her own hand and sealed with her life's blood. She had been her own downfall, her own Achilles heel, rendering her broken cause quite hopeless, indeed.

No—the time to repair her own muddled life had run out months ago. She must now focus solely on her son.

Branson pulled them as close to the back entrance of Crawley House as possible, as far from eager glances as he could maneuver. They emerged into the sunlight, autumn's nippy breath chilling her neck as she clutched his blanketed form closer. Her mother and Isobel had nearly reached the door, solidifying plans into an orderly fashion that even now seemed too overwhelming for her desperate mind to grasp.

"May I, Lady Mary?"

His voice startled her again, and she looked to the concerned face of the chauffeur, taken aback by his personal request and unsure of how best to answer. A slow nod finally voiced her consent in silence, and she drew back his protective blanket, revealing a bundle of pink skin and inky eyes to Branson's watchful gaze.

"He's beautiful."

He was, she knew it, yet to hear it from someone so utterly unconnected to her filled her with a small measure of pride.

"Thank you."

Her skirts fluttered in a gust of wind, prompting her to cover her treasure from watchful eyes as their own met silently.

"Good luck, my lady. I wish you both the best. Truly."

She gave him a small smile, all she could manage, and remained where she stood as he returned to the car and drove it from her sight. She knew well his destination and the passenger he would carry back into her life within an hour's time.

One hour's time.

It suddenly felt like January.

* * *

He was assisted into the vehicle, embarrassed by the floppy nature of his lower limbs as he tried to overcompensate with his arms, adjusting his own body after the initial transfer had been complete.

"Thank you, Branson."

He received a curt nod, a glance that lingered longer than necessary, and he wondered again just what actually lay in store for him, concealed within the walls of his own address.

The journey was pointless, nothing but a painful reminder of a life that had slipped through fingers held too loosely. He stared at the tree, tearing his eyes from the very place he had foolishly withdrawn his proposal when she had beckoned him to listen, pled with him to hear. Instead he had walked away, too bound by his own anger to see what lay hidden in her heart.

If he had stayed, would she have told him then?

The words had never been spoken, but he knew it to be true all the same. She had delayed her answer out of fear… a fear of how he would respond to her admission of a specter from a past she regretted.

How well-acquainted he was with regret. He lived immersed in its sticky talons, skin puckered and clammy by its continual absorption into overly-saturated pores.

What would he have said to her had things been different that day? Had she told him the truth? Had he the courage to stand his ground and look her in the eye rather than turn his back and flee her presence?

Would they now be married, possibly raising a child, holding on to each other in this uncertain world thrust upon them? Or would he have rejected her as he had in that cabin? The most probable answer chilled his intestines, constricting blood flowing to his extremities as his fingers became ice.

He felt devoid of all warmth.

He could not escape her, her essence etched into every street, her image sketched upon every corner, the details of her seared into his pupils. No matter where he glanced, there she stood, hair disheveled, eyes bleeding, trembling hands covering herself in a blanket they had just shared…

Watching him reject her after marking her intimately.

The house was now in sight, and he became aware of eyes continually observing him through the mirror's revealing surface.

"Can I help you, Branson?"

"No, sir."

The response was quick, too quick, actually, raising more questions than it put to rest.

"Is there something wrong? There must be a reason for you to keep glancing back in my direction."

The chauffeur cleared his throat, remaining silent until he pulled the car into position in front of the house.

"I just hope you find what it is you're looking for."

He could not help the painful sound that escaped him, shaking his head at the very thought that there was something yet for him worth finding.

"I'm afraid you misunderstand, Branson. I am looking for nothing."

The subdued chuckle that met him took him by surprise as Branson turned his face to meet him head on.

"Then something's bound to find you."

Guilt crushed his ribs, the pain of those last moments with her cutting him open yet again with cold precision.

"In that case, let's just hope it's swift and merciful."

* * *

She heard the car door close, knew he had arrived, yet she could not bring herself to look out the window. His son rested on her shoulder, his hunger sated as heavy eyelids pattered shut. She absorbed the grace afforded her by simply rubbing his back, kissing his head, relishing this continual warmth born from a black void.

The front door creaked open, voices travelling through walls, traipsing up stairs, wrapping themselves around chilled feet as she heard him.

Him.

She sealed her eyes to the room around her, attempting to block out any reality save the one snuggled against her ribs. But it was useless.

He was here. God help her. He was here.

And her moment of truth was approaching all too quickly.

* * *

"Mother."

Her greeting was both a balm to his spirit and a knife to his gut, relishing the utter love found in her embrace even as he felt guilty receiving it.

"My boy. My dear, dear boy."

She was beaming at him, her smile almost too radiant to his gaze. The quiver of her chin alerted him, a flash of something he could not name in her eyes making him wonder.

"How well you look, Matthew. I cannot get over the improvement."

She was lying, she had to be. How could anyone call this existence an improvement?

"You are too kind, mother."

The deadness of his tone caught her attention, and she stared at him fixedly.

"No. No I am not. And at the end of the day, I hope you will thank me for it."

She stared hard at him for a moment before turning to leave, his jaw gaping at what had most assuredly been the most unusual encounter he had ever experienced with his mother.

He returned his gaze to the window, wondering just what he was doing here, why it had mattered so much that she meet him here if their conversation was going to consist of five sentences.

But then again, did it really matter?

* * *

The baby had been entrusted to her mother, and she managed a last fleeting glance into the mirror. Isobel's presence had certainly worked wonders, the additional rest it had afforded returning a measure of color to cheeks that had been sunken and pale. She touched her coiffed hair, tracing small lines around her eyes before gently touching her breasts. These were the one marked change that remained, their fullness still a bit discomforting to her.

Would he notice them right away?

How would he react to her presence at all?

There was no use in delaying this agony any longer, she supposed, her feet taking their first steps in this journey back towards the man she both loved and hated, one who had nearly stripped her of her own life while entrusting her with another. The air seemed to thicken as she drew closer, questions pressing in on her until breathing was longer an unconscious action.

_He heard steps approaching, the click of heels alerting him that it was most assuredly his mother returning to resume their conversation left unfinished. Perhaps now he would receive some answers, although the cinching in his gut continually questioned just how welcome they would be._

She halted just before the door, resting her hand upon its smooth panels as her forehead touched its surface. Her stomach clenched, her palms began to sweat, saliva coating her throat as she fought down the urge to become ill.

_The steps halted, yet no one emerged. He looked towards the door, wondering just what was keeping her, becoming more nervous at what awaited him with each moment that passed. His hand began to shake._

A swallow was forced, a calming breath attempted. But nothing could soothe her when he sat just in the next room. Just in the next room…

_He closed his eyes and saw her again, foolishly wishing she would appear before him here, to grant him the opportunity to beg for her forgiveness. Yet how could that happen when she was an ocean away…_

She fisted her hands in determination, knowing this delay would accomplish nothing. It was time.

_He had been such a coward. He at least owed her a letter absolving her from all wrong doing. It was time._

She could do this. This was for her son.

_He would do this. This was for Mary._

God help me.

_God forgive me._

And the door finally opened.

* * *

_And now you see what I was attempting to describe at the beginning. Just a reminder: I own none of these characters. But your thoughts are always most welcome! _


	6. Chapter 6

_Once again, I send out a huge amount of thanks to all of you for the support this story has received. I am simply blown away by it all, and I cherish each review and message sent my way! _

_Blessings and gratitude to **Orangeshipper **and** patsan** for their continued support and suggestions concerning this chapter. Big hugs to you two!_

_A rather nasty bout of the stomach bug allowed me some extra writing time this week (one must always look at the bright side), thus bringing about the one week turn-around for this story. I now have this tale posting on opposite weeks of "In the Company of Strangers", and I would like to keep it that way for my own sanity! (And the sanity of my family.) That said, expect the next posts in two week intervals. Yes-posts. This story is obviously going beyond 7 chapters. (To think I originally predicted 5!) I'm now anticipating 8-9...we'll see! It just keep growing and growing..._

_Of course, I own none of these amazing characters, but I do so enjoy inviting them over and playing with their lives. :) _

_Shall we continue?_

* * *

Mary's feet seemed to hover over the floor, her body somewhat suspended as she stepped into the room's suddenly restrictive confines. She could hear nothing but a deafening roar in her ears, keeping her focus steadily honed even as she swallowed down sharp pangs of panic. Could she even feel her body as it led her slowly forward? Ever closer to uncertainty...

Ever closer to him.

Matthew.

There he sat, bound to a chair, head bowed in what she recognized as a stance of defeat. This broken form was not the same man to whom she had given everything, yet it was. She wanted to comfort him, hold him, hurt and despise him, fall weeping into his arms, turn and never see him again.

Yet she somehow could not move. How in God's name was she supposed to do this?

Mary forced her eyes to remain open, willed numbed feet not to flee from the room as she took him in, continually reminding herself to breathe steadily.

His back was to her, but it was no less of a blow. Yes—his back—glaring at her just as it had been when he purposefully withdrew himself from her body and her life. But different, for this spine had been injured, this man stripped of the existence he had should have known just as she had been stripped her of her own. Dear God, how tragic they were, standing in this nightmare of their own creation, so close yet still unreachable.

She needed to see his eyes, yet feared their scrutiny all the same. The last time they had gaze upon her she had been branded and marked by their fury, reduced to a shroud of the woman she had been in one moment of realization.

She could not allow that to happen again.

"So you're back."

His voice rendered her immobile, her own breath sounding unnaturally loud to her ears as she stared at his body unmoving. He could not have seen her—his gaze remained fixed steadily out the window.

"Perhaps now you will tell me why it was so incredibly important that I be brought here to see you."

This was not going well at all.

Her hands were trembling, feeling quite bereft without the comforting weight of her son. But she could not share him yet. There was too much to be said before a child was brought into this flammable realm of pent-up emotion. Suddenly his head inclined, yet his eyes strayed no closer, remaining attached to something out of her line of vision.

"For God's sake, mother, what sort of game is this? Why won't you answer me?"

Her throat tightened uncomfortably, her lips and tongue pushing out reluctant words whose time had come.

"Hello, Matthew."

Her voice hit him with a force beyond comprehension.

He first turned only his head in her direction, afraid of facing her fully lest this be a dream and she vanish into nothing. Yet for her to be here, to see him like this…

To see him at all.

"Mary?"

The very air in the room seemed to pause.

His broken whisper nearly buckled her knees, yet she stood fixed, some unseen force continuing to restrict her movements as he began to turn his chair.

He felt what life was left in him drain from his body, yet his heart was pounding at a merciless pace. His eyes blinked repeatedly, unwilling to believe what they were taking in, yet desperately terrified not to do so. How was this possible?

Mary. Mary was here.

"What are you…I mean….you're supposed to be in America."

The words stumbled from him, falling haplessly towards her in a tangled rush. She witnessed no anger, just blatant confusion staring back at her upon the face of a man who gazed upon her as if she were an apparition.

"No."

Silence hung over them yet again.

His brow creased further, utter incomprehension making speech nearly impossible as a hand ravaged his hair in need of something to grasp.

"But…but I don't understand."

Somehow her legs carried her two steps forward, halting unsteadily lest she get too close. How ashen he looked, his skin tone too gray for her liking.

"I was never in America, Matthew. I just needed everyone to believe that I was."

Her revelation struck him, heavy guilt forcing him to hang his head as her gaze became too much to bear.

"Because of me."

Her ribs constricted, her palms began to sweat as she drew the deepest breath she could manage.

"Yes."

A shudder rocked his body as he shook his head mercilessly, finally mustering up the courage to look back at her in mortification.

"God, Mary. I'm so sorry."

Her eyes closed of their own free will, something small releasing its grip on her as her insides continued to quiver.

"I know that cannot even begin to make up for how I treated you, but I…I…."

He buried his face in his hands, his shame too much for him to share as a slight tremor began anew in his hand.

"I truly am."

She had to sit down, her legs becoming so unsteady she feared for a moment she might actually faint. She moved to the nearest chair, keeping her spine as straight as she could manage as she watched him crumble before her.

"So am I."

His face shot up at this, eyes rounding in a stupor as her words registered with a thud.

"No. No, Mary. You have nothing to apologize for. The fault was mine, all mine, and you must let me own it."

The weight of the past several months pressed on him mercilessly. He could not allow her to carry one measure of guilt or responsibility, not when it all rested so squarely upon his shoulders. He may not be able to stand upright, but he could at least give her this.

She then made direct eye contact, the connection between them so clear yet horribly strained, painful yet as necessary as air to her lungs.

"Some of it, yes. But not all."

His eyes flashed in determination, the first spark of spirit she had seen.

"Don't try to absolve me out of pity, Mary. Please."

Her stare was penetrating, absorbing the uselessness of his legs, the abject pain he carried both physically and emotionally palpable to her from across the room.

"I can take it from most people, but not from you."

The bite of bitterness in his voice scraped her, making her draw back from him slightly.

"I don't pity you, Matthew. But there have been times this year when I have hated you."

The tremor in his hand escalated, yet he pushed it down, shoving yet this other sign of weakness out of her line of vision as he made himself taste the sting of her words.

"I can't blame you. You have every right."

He was defeated. Utterly and completely defeated.

His state tore at parts of her while others remained surprisingly numb. She suddenly did not feel like herself, but rather an imposter attempting to portray her, or perhaps a spirit disengaged from the confines of her body free to observe the difficult scene playing out to an unknown end.

"Why did you never contact me?"

The words slid past her lips before she could call them back, this question that had pressed upon her finally given a voice. Her stomach dropped as he hung his head.

"I was too ashamed."

Her eyes bore witness to his stance, ascertaining the truth of his reply as its implications poked a sensitive area.

"Ashamed of being with me?"

The shock on his face could not have been more genuine.

"No, never. Not that. Never that."

He searched the ceiling, the walls, the floor, seeking the right words with a manic desperation.

"I was and still am horribly ashamed of how I treated you, Mary. Of how I reacted when…"

Here he broke off, understanding too late just how close he had drawn to the cliff's edge. Yet her eyes held his unflinchingly.

"When you discovered I was not a virgin."

How her tone remained so steady, she truly did not know. But a cool precision had taken over, one she welcomed whole-heartedly even as she feared its tenure would be short-lived.

"That should not have mattered," he uttered softly, the pain in his eyes making her wince.

"But it did."

How he wished he could take back his reactions, rewind that fateful moment when he had brought about such destruction and hurt.

"Only because I was a jealous, self-righteous fool. I didn't even give you the chance to explain, to tell me what happened."

Her sigh was as heavy as her eyes.

"Would it have mattered? Would you have really wanted to know?"

There was something different about her, he then noticed, something in her appearance slightly altered yet difficult to pinpoint. Her skin bore a refinement, a marked translucence, and there was a depth of maturity to her expression he had never before seen.

How had he ever walked away from her?

"I don't know."

The bluntness of his reply hung uncomfortably between them.

"But that was my folly, Mary, not yours. Never yours."

A noise escaped her, more than a grunt but not quite a laugh, commanding his attention.

"Yet had it not been for my past indiscretion, how different would things be between us now?"

He had asked himself this question more than he could remember, wondering what would have happened had their time together been her first with a man, if his pride had not been wounded in a most ironic fashion. They would be engaged, he was certain, possibly even married by this point. His blind stupidity had demanded a hefty price.

"I would have proposed. And not just because of what happened between us."

The admission stung his throat.

Her legs pushed her from her seat, a restless energy releasing itself throughout her limbs as the implications of his admission sank in. They would have been married, she still at Downton, her pregnancy a cause for celebration, shared with her family and proudly announced to the village. Her son—their son—would have been legitimate, born into a stable home with both a mother and father. There would be no threat of censure, no looks of disdain.

No question of whether or not he could ever succeed his father as heir.

How much had been lost to her when she tossed away reason to flirt with a self-seeking man she found exciting? And how many times must she berate herself for that lapse of judgment?

"For God's sake, Matthew, why are we doing this to ourselves?"

She was pacing now, her composure falling away from her at frustration's marked insistence.

"We can't go back and undo what has been done, no matter how badly we might want to. Good or bad, aren't we stuck with the choices we've made?"

She was right. It was hopeless.

"I suppose we are."

The resignation in his voice made her want to embrace and slap him simultaneously. Perhaps he had the luxury of giving up on life, but she had not been presented with such a choice.

"But I'm still so very sorry for all of it. God, Mary, you have no idea."

He could never fully express it, the weight of shame he carried, the fire of conviction that still burned whenever he remembered pushing away from her. He had hoped that telling her might finally grant him some peace of mind, yet he was even more shattered than when he had arrived. He stared at her back, wondering just what was playing across her face that she was determined to keep hidden.

"I would have accepted you."

The unexpectedness of her response nearly knocked the wind from his lungs.

"What?"

His startled inquiry lingered in the space between them.

"If you had proposed that afternoon, I would have accepted you. And not simply because of the fact that we were together."

He licked his lips, filtering all of this through a suddenly overloaded mind as another question made itself known.

"When you didn't accept me the first time, all those years ago, was it because of this? Because of him?"

She turned to look at him, seeing a vulnerability that pulled at her too insistently for her own comfort. Her mouth was suddenly parched.

"Mostly. I didn't know how to tell you, and I couldn't accept you under false pretenses."

He held her gaze, steeling himself for the blow he fully anticipated.

"You were afraid of my reaction."

At first there was nothing. But the stillness was rent by a hesitant nod.

"I suppose it doesn't matter now."

Her pronouncement had been no more than a whisper, yet it shook him with force.

"Of course it matters. It matters dreadfully because you matter, Mary. You should have been able to confide in me and to trust that I wouldn't judge you unfairly. And I proved myself to be the worst kind of man imaginable rather than one upon whom you could depend."

Her heart seemed to still, her fingers frozen painfully.

"Good God, I held you in my arms, I took you as my own, and I left you there alone without a word. What sort of monster does that make me?"

Her mind flashed back unwittingly to a contest of wills, a verbal sparring match over the dining table when they were so very young. How far away they had strayed from the innocence of sea monsters and the like.

"You're not a monster, Matthew."

He longed to accept her statement, but could not allow himself to do so. He was unworthy of such generosity.

"And what exactly separates me from such a status, may I ask?"

She drew breath insistently, wrapping her arms about herself together tightly as she gave him her answer.

"You are capable of remorse."

His laugh was brittle, his eyes distraught.

"A lot of good remorse does either of us at the moment."

He swallowed down what pride he had remaining, staring back at her with unmitigated regret.

"I didn't have the right to touch you in the first place, much less to take advantage of you as I did."

Her sigh interrupted him, her steps returning her to her seat where they could sit eye to eye.

"You didn't take advantage of me, Matthew. I chose to be with you."

"But I should have known better and have treated you with more respect. Whether or not you consented should not have given me license to proceed. I still took advantage."

She shook her head in denial.

"No, you didn't."

"How can you say that, Mary? How can you sit there and defend me?"

"Because I know the difference."

The admission escaped her before she realized its impact, watching his eyes widen and his hand shake uncontrollably.

"Oh, God. The Turk…did he…?"

The sentence lodged in his throat, its missing words nearly choking him.

"No. Not like that."

Why couldn't she bring herself to look at him?

"But you didn't…you didn't want…"

"I let him."

Mortification stung her cheeks as if it had happened yesterday. Oh, why was this still so difficult?

"I let him, you see, so there's really nothing more to discuss."

"Obviously there is."

Her brows drew together in consternation.

"Why can't you leave this alone?"

The distress in her eyes mirrored an expression he had seen before and abandoned in a moment of anger. Never again would he leave her in such a state.

Never again.

"Tell me. Please. It obviously matters to you."

He then breathed deep sentiment openly into a room already heavy with emotion.

"And you matter a great deal."

Her heart squeezed so painfully that breath was lost to her. Words from her past clawed at her skin as she saw herself again as the girl she was. She had thought herself so clever, so knowledgeable about life, yet she had been so vastly ignorant of realities beyond her sphere. Her chin quivered slightly, and she clasped her hands together tightly in an effort to hold herself together.

"What do you want to know?"

He sat stunned, watching her struggle with demons as she laid herself open for his inspection. She had bared herself for him once before. He would cherish this gift as he should this time.

"Whatever you are comfortable telling me."

How could he do this to her again? Fortresses she had spent months constructing were crumbling as if they had been built of ash rather than stone. Was there no means of keeping Matthew Crawley away from her treacherous heart?

"None of this is exactly comfortable, Matthew."

Eyes fastened upon each other yet again.

"I know."

She drew in air for courage, seeking the steadiness required to revisit an episode she preferred to leave buried.

"He showed up in my room. I asked him to leave, and he didn't. And then it just happened. That's why it didn't really matter, you see. I was ruined regardless of the choice I made."

She recited the words as if reading them from a book, her eyes glued to her hands. Her masked vulnerability left him raw, seething with anger at the man who put her in such a position, and more wretchedly despising the man who had treated her even worse.

"And then he died, and I didn't know what to do anymore."

He had died there—with her.

"God, Mary."

His hand began to tremble uncontrollably, and he pushed it down with this other, tears of mortification and self-loathing stinging the back of his eyes. How could he have treated her in such a dismissive manner when she had accepted him in absolute trust? She had been with two men in her life: both had sought her out unbidden, and both left her grievously injured.

She watched his struggle, moved to pain by the plight of his hands. Her heart flew uncomfortably into her throat as she stretched out her arm in his direction, daring to touch him for the first time since they had explored each other in private intimacy.

The pressure of her own hand atop his released something inside of him, breaking through glass barriers of apathy and touching the man he had been before. The man who had loved her, had drowned in her kisses, had caressed her in a reverent wonder with her name on his lips. He was still there, too wounded to stand alone yet too ashamed to retreat from her again. A lone tear finally broke free from its confines, trailing down his cheek as his rough declaration shook her.

"You're the bravest woman I know, Mary."

She shook her head in denial of both his words and the staggering effects of his brokenness.

"No. Just stubborn."

An airy chuckle actually wracked his chest, pushing out another tear as the first hints of a smile found their way to his face.

"I believe we can both claim our fair share of that trait, unfortunately."

They sat in silence, still uncomfortable yet somehow familiar, the cores of themselves reaching out with trembling fingers through layers of hurt and doubt.

"But I mean it, truly. You are a wonderful woman—a storm-braver if ever I saw one."

The soft timbre of his voice wafted over her, offering a shred of hope even as she feared taking hold of it.

"It's rather ironic, you know. Your mother basically said the same thing."

A splash of reality soaked through at her remark, the knowledge that his mother was privy to all that had transpired between them giving his vision a sickening clarity.

"She knows, doesn't she?"

There was really no question here, only the acceptance of a man truly ashamed of what he had done.

"Yes. She knows everything."

Her grip on him tightened as the shaking increased, his head bowing once again as he accepted what was only inevitable.

"She's the one who brought you back."

A nod, a glimpse, then a simple confirmation.

"Yes."

He pursed his lips together firmly, sniffing back tears unshed as his gaze met hers again.

"It's funny, you know, I have these memories of asking mother to find you, but they are so very muddled, almost like I dreamed the entire conversation. And when she actually left, I really had no idea that she was seeking you out."

She digested what he told her in complete stillness.

"Are you sorry that she did?"

His eyes widened in horror at the mere suggestion.

"God, no. Of course not."

He licked his lips repeatedly, his agitation evident as he beckoned her to believe him.

"I've been wanting to see you for so long, Mary, to apologize. I needed to at least attempt to right what I have wronged."

Her lashes fluttered shut, sealing in his words, drinking in the knowledge that this meeting was not entirely forced upon him before his next question called her out.

"Why did you come back, Mary? Why would you ever want to see me again?"

He was moving in closer, nearing areas more sensitive than even he knew.

"You were injured. I had to see you."

She blinked twice at her cowardice, simply not yet ready to step into the realm which would ultimately define all of their futures.

"It's not a pretty sight, is it?"

He was retreating again, she felt it, drawing himself into the chair and away from the man to whom she had bound herself inextricably.

"It's not an ugly one, either."

She caught him by surprise, her tone even and her gaze honest.

"I'm useless. What sort of future can I possibly offer to Downton, to you, or to anyone like this?"

"You're alive, Matthew. And your mind is perfectly sound."

The logic of her statement simply heightened his frustration, unable to see past the confines of his chair into this different world she seemed to visualize so clearly.

"It's not the same."

"Nothing is the same. Surely you realize that."

The edge in her tone stilled him, and he watched her struggle with something yet hidden.

"Why did you break things off with Lavinia?"

This she had to know before she took the final step.

His cheeks actually colored as his brows knit themselves together.

"I couldn't marry her. Not after what we had shared."

His choice of words snapped something inside of her, stoking a fire to coals left simmering too long.

"Shared? After what we _shared_?"

Dear God, not tears, not now. They were pulsing behind her eyelids, demanding she take notice, crying out for release.

"Mary, I—"

"How can you call it that when you walked away from me Matthew?"

Her words struck with force, pent-up anger finally unleashed in full.

"I couldn't move after you left me. Did you know that? I just sat there on that bed, trying to believe what had just happened, wondering if you would come back."

She was crumbling, disintegrating, all semblance of control lost as months of despair and uncertainty toppled down on her at once. She could feel the numbness, the shock, the horror as if it had just happened, remembering how the snow seemed to mock her as it descended in such unhurried peace.

"I waited, you know. For a letter, for a telegram, anything to give me either hope or closure. And then I couldn't wait any longer, it became impossible for me to stay at Downton."

She had not meant to do this, to lash out at a man already defeated with such animosity. But her insides were heaving, the weeks of desperation and abject loneliness cutting to the bone.

"I know. I have no viable excuse for my actions other than that I was a complete coward."

God, he was bleeding before her, yet she couldn't stop. Her chest began to heave, and she turned her head from him as the dam of silence was dismantled.

"I wasn't given that option, Matthew. I couldn't avoid what we had done. I had to face it and make some rather difficult decisions."

"Like ending your engagement to Richard."

His words nearly sounded foreign to her ears, so far from the truth yet what he would naturally assume.

"No. That was one of the easier things I had to do."

That admission surprised him and he studied her again, wanting so badly to reach out to her yet knowing it was the last thing she would ever want.

"You didn't love him?"

His question seemed so irrelevant, yet she knew he needed an answer.

"No."

"Then why marry him?"

"Because he would have me. And you were promised to Lavinia."

Her words struck him again. She had already been living in a compromised position, feeling as though her prospects for a good marriage were few and only getting slimmer. And why? Because he had withdrawn his proposal, gone off to war, become engaged to another woman and then led her along a winding trail peppered with kisses and longing glances he had convinced himself were one-sided.

"I never loved her, you know."

She wasn't certain she could hear this, bracing herself for whatever came next.

"Not like I loved you."

Her eyes sought him—glassy and wounded—yet needing the understanding only he could offer. She swallowed a sob, covering her mouth to prevent an ungodly noise from tearing out of her.

"How can people who love each other keep hurting each other so terribly?"

Her question was ragged, scraped from her throat in the throes of raw emotion. Yet he had no answer for her, wishing all of their past could be burned to ash and they allowed to start anew.

"Perhaps we are cursed, you and I."

Her arms flew around her abdomen, recalling her abject hopelessness the morning she realized her courses had been missed yet again, finally acknowledging other symptoms for what they actually were. She remembered her surprise the first time she felt him stir, recalling the small jostling within when he had the hiccups. She closed her eyes and smelled his precious scent, the wonder of him flooding her with at least one overwhelming certainty in this situation.

"No. You mustn't say that."

"But look at me, Mary. If this is not a fitting penance for what I've done then I don't know what is."

She stared at him hard, attempting to erect at least a semblance of a barrier to emotions that had just been given free reign.

"This is no punishment from God, Matthew, it's the aftermath of war. And I would never wish anything like this upon you, no matter how badly I've been hurt."

An uneasy stillness returned, his hand suddenly settled even as his mind swirled rampantly.

"I know that. And I could never blame you for this."

They stared at each other, both at a loss of what further to say, aware that more was needed yet uncertain of how to begin. He cleared his throat softly, knowing he had to let her go, whatever honor he had left compelling him to free her from feeling any sort of misguided responsibility towards him.

"I do only hope that one day you will be able to forgive me."

His words settled on her heavily, nudging her towards what was necessary as her tongue seemed to thicken in her mouth.

"I have to forgive you, Matthew."

Hurt shone on his face in a fractured transparency, his eyes shutting in refusal to what she had said.

"No, Mary, you don't have to do anything. I don't want your forgiveness out of any sense of obligation or duty. I will only accept it when it is of your own free will and nothing less. You are free to live your life and leave me to what's left of mine. I want you to go with my blessings and know that there is nothing in this world that I desire more than to see you happy."

He was shaking, the release and weight of what he had just offered her overwhelming them both resolutely. He watched her struggle, her face constricting in manner that pained him to view. She finally breathed heavily, commanding his full attention with a gaze that demanded it.

"But I do have to forgive you. And you must understand why."

Then she left.

He remained quiet as she turned from him, staring at her back, watching her walk away from him without another word of explanation. His mind reeled from the blatant justice of it, even though he now knew that even if by some miracle his body ever healed, he would never be whole again. She was a part of him, had become so that day he had entered her body and soul in the cabin. And he had wrenched them apart, heaving them into this life of torment to which they had both been banished. He would not call her back, not when she needed to be released from the confines to which he had been sentenced.

He turned back to the window, staring at nothing as the last remnants of her slipped through his fingers.

He could not look when the door opened again, not able to stand the disappointment of what he was certain was his mother when he longed for only her. This was better for Mary, he knew, a life apart from him, a life with someone who could give her a future.

Someone who could give her children.

He was in no mood for further company at the moment, palms balling into fists in a small show of defiance for all that this life had dealt him.

"Please leave me. I haven't anything more to say."

But encroaching footfalls ignored his plea, only firing his determination not to look back in remembrance.

"I can't leave you. Not yet."

Mary.

His pupils actually focused at the sound of her voice, noticing the bird that had surely been sitting upon the windowsill for some time even though he had been blind to its existence.

"You don't have to do this, Mary."

"Yes, I do."

There was then a sound out of place, a stirring, a whimper, one he could not reconcile with either his location or circumstances. His mind sought to identify it, but the answer given had no place here…with Mary….with them.

Oh, God.

He turned, finally, the picture standing so clearly before him etched in details seemingly from another world. He swallowed forcibly, the urgent question unmistakable as his eyes sought hers in desperation.

She moved towards him slowly, deliberately, watching for a reaction—any reaction besides the shock staring back at her open-mouthed. At last she reached him, lowering the child gently, laying him in his father's trembling hands for the first time.

"I do have to forgive you, Matthew," she managed, her voice heavy as her glance flickered between the pair of them.

His eyes pled with her, the tremor in his chin more than she could bear. She swallowed down the remainder of her fear, stroking the child's head in a gesture to soothe herself as a small gurgle of contentment was voiced between them.

"For him, you see. For our son."

* * *

_Thoughts, anyone?_


	7. Chapter 7

_Many, many thanks to those of you reading and supporting this story! All of your reviews and messages just make my day-I know I've said it before, but I always believe it bears repeating. :) So sorry about the two week wait, but it is truly the best I can offer with my family's schedule and the commitment of another story. I actually had a reader ask me to put Strangers on hiatus to complete this one first (please know how much I appreciate your enthusiasm for this story! Truly, I do-so very kind of you. :D ), but it would be terribly unfair to those following Strangers to abandon it at such a critical juncture in the story. (Why I am waiting on the possibility of extending "The Nightwatch" until one of the others is complete. Cannot add on another without cheating the other two.) As a reader, I know how much I enjoy regular updates, so I want to offer them to all of my readers, regardless of whether they are following "Things Hidden" or "In the Company of Strangers". _

_And if you are following both, I'm sending you a double-hug! _

_Many thanks to **Orange Shipper** for her incredible editing skills and insights, as well as her support for this story and my writing. You're are just wonderful!_

_And with that, shall we journey into Chapter 7?_

* * *

_Our son._

The reality resounded in his conscious mind, yet he could not begin to reconcile the enormity of it. A son—he had a son. Impossible, unthinkable, more than he could possibly take in, yet this…this…

This baby in his arms—his son. Mary's son.

Oh, Mary.

He gazed at her in wonder, unobserved as she kept her eyes fixed firmly to the infant, his heart shattering yet again as a tear fell from her lashes prompting her to sniff back another. A small noise drew his attention, and he extended a finger down slowly to touch, to see again, to make certain.

_Our son._

This tiny, perfect human squirming within his grasp was his. _Theirs_. How was this possible?

It was so much more than he deserved, too wonderful to believe, too horrifying to contemplate. Yet there knelt Mary before him, watching over them both, stroking the child's head with a love most sacred as she caressed his soft cheek. This perfect little being had come into existence through an act of love gone horribly wrong, conceived on an afternoon he had been attempting to chase from his memory with a vehemence. Could something so beautiful truly be birthed from his own stupidity and ego?

"Say something, Matthew."

Her plea was barely a whisper, and for the first time he noticed the slight trembling in her own hands. He wanted to assure her, to appease her worries, yet speech seemed no more tangible than the ability to stand, his tongue thickening to the point where he could barely swallow.

"I know this must come as a horrible shock."

Shock? Her observation was logical, yet somehow not right. He couldn't comprehend it all properly, was unsure exactly what to think, yet shock seemed to be such an inappropriate term for what was now looking up at him with trusting eyes of an ambiguous color. He had experienced shock when he received the notice from Lord Grantham that he was to be his newly appointed heir, had been immobilized by it in the aftermath of battle, and had recoiled in its wake when he had entered Mary's body only to discover he had not been the first. Shock left him uncertain and shaky, as if a hidden threat lay lurking just out of eyesight. No—it was a word he would not allow to be associated with…with this. His baby. His child.

Their son.

"Oh, God, Mary."

The hoarse whisper was all he could manage, the words scraping his throat. Then he couldn't see, his vision clouded by tears that filled his eyes before he could fight them. It was so much, a child…a son.

His chest began to heave, his cheeks to burn as sobs tore from him in a manner that physically hurt. Moisture poured over the crevices of his face, falling into the baby's blanket, into his downy hair. A handkerchief was somehow pressed into his palm, from where he had no knowledge, but he was certain it would not be enough to curtail all that needed to be expressed.

It could never be enough.

"He's mine? Ours? Truly?"

She nodded slowly, her own chin betraying her as a quiver rocked it unexpectedly.

"Yes."

The dam then broke, allowing the unfettered passage of heavy regret and loss to mix in a free descent with an unknown emotion so profound it frightened him. He pulled the baby closer yet turned his head, attempting to shield the boy from the tears of a father he had only just met.

He was somewhat aware of her hand on his arm, of her hair on his cheek, noticing through a fog how she wiped one of his tears from the baby's forehead before kissing the very spot she had just touched. He could not help but stare at her, the blurred lines of her face the most exquisite thing he had ever beheld.

"He's perfect, Mary. So very perfect."

He sensed her exhale, felt the additional weight of her body lean against his shoulder as it dawned upon him that she had been uncertain of how he would respond.

"I think so," she breathed, looking to the child rather than at him as her shoulders dropped in release. It was done.

Thank God.

"And all this time, you…you were?"

Her silent nod answered him, her composure suddenly too unsteady to accommodate speech.

He stared at the boy again, his delicate nose, eyebrows that were nearly non-existent, ears so small he could not fathom how they could begin to process sound. Then he yawned, the gesture so incredibly precious that he couldn't help but smile through lingering tears.

"How old is he?"

His voice was ragged, but the expression he wore was one of wonder tinged with utter awe.

"Six weeks."

Had it really been only weeks that he had been in her life? Only a fistful of days that he had latched to her breast and burrowed into her being? How was it possible for every strand of one's life to be so radically altered in such a short amount of time?

But a year ago he was not even a formed thought.

"He's so tiny."

His voice drew her attention, and she watched as he took the boy's hand, examining his fingers as if they were priceless gemstones, stroking nails so small they were nearly impossible to feel.

The rise and fall of the child's chest mesmerized him, and Matthew was suddenly struck by the realization that he could simply watch his son forever.

"Are you angry?"

Her question jarred him, so out of place and disjointed with what he held in his arms that he stared at her in a stupor.

"Angry?"

His confusion drew her eyes, his mouth agape at her inquiry.

"About him. Because I didn't tell you."

"How—how could I possibly be angry? About him?"

His honest bewilderment struck her, yet she knew that the enormity of what was taking place had not yet had the opportunity to settle fully into his mind.

"A child is quite a large responsibility, Matthew."

One side of his mouth lifted slightly.

"I am aware of that, Mary."

There was no reproach in his tone, just a burgeoning acceptance of the infant in his arms as his eyes continually flittered from the child to his mother.

"I admit to the fact that I am experiencing quite a myriad of emotions at the moment, but I can assure you that anger is not one of them."

She stared at him, swallowing decisively.

"It may yet be, you know. Goodness knows I have dealt with my own share of it."

It then hit him—the full measure of her situation. He had left her alone, pregnant, and unmarried while he had been engaged to another. She had fled from Downton, from her family, not only out of a desire to escape from any attachment to him but to hide her shame from those who would all too willingly judge her. And she had carried all of that burden while she carried his child in her womb, along with the additional weight of his rejection and complete removal from her life. Of course she would be angry.

Of course she would hate him.

So much struck him at once, he nearly took mental cover out of habit, feeling the need to throw himself from the chaos surrounding him into the safest location he could find. He had deserted her when she had been at her most vulnerable, leaving her marked as a woman of easy virtue while he agonized over whether or not he should post his pitiful attempts at an apology. While he had been in the trenches, she had fought to find her way, to live on her own, to give birth to and raise a child alone.

And not just any child—_his _child, who because of his foolish actions had entered this world without the protection of a father. Who had been born illegitimate, a stigma no child deserved to carry, especially one born to the woman he had loved in stubborn silence for far too long. Yet in spite of the difficult circumstances in which he had left them, Mary had been able to move beyond any animosity she rightfully bore him and loved her son with a purity that was humbling to witness.

His admiration for her coupled with his own shame filled his chest painfully.

"I'm so sorry, Mary. God knows that I am."

His trembling resumed, and their eyes locked in a manner slightly uncomfortable yet so very familiar.

"I know. So am I."

The babe began to protest, his face pinching as a slight whimper began a steady crescendo. He looked to her for instruction, wondering if the boy needed his mother yet reluctant to give him up. She wrapped her hands about his small frame, careful to balance his head as she shifted his position to rest against his father's chest.

"Rub his back. That tends to soothe him."

How odd it felt to hold him in such a fashion, but how wonderfully natural. The warmth of his tiny body nestled against him pushed up yet another sob, one he swallowed down as best he could even as a tear trickled down rebelliously. Mary knew to stroke his back, had already come to know their child in a manner so personal. Yet he was still a stranger. The thought cut him, leaving in its wake a wound deeper than the one that had placed him in this chair.

But the fault was his own. Not hers. Never hers.

"What's his name?"

His question had been anticipated with a certain amount of dread, the understanding that if he held certain expectations her reply could pull him back into morose or launch him into anger.

She had convinced herself by her fourth month that it was a daughter growing within her. That notion had been easier for her to accept, somehow, knowing that the child would not be denied an inheritance simply because of the circumstances of her birth. She had considered several names for a girl, writing them down, crossing them out, unwilling to consider names for a son who would most assuredly be a painful reminder of his father.

Yet the moment she had seen him, all thoughts of a daughter had vanished. He was her own. _Hers. _And she had deliberately chosen a name that held no reminders or painful associations that could wedge themselves between them.

"Christopher. His name is Christopher."

Matthew's eyes fluttered, absorbing with a modicum of surprise the name which would forever identify his son.

"Not Robert?"

So he had not expected that she would name the boy after himself. She sighed heavily in relief.

"No. I wasn't sure just how Papa would feel about that once he learned that he…"

She faltered, something she so rarely did. But he understood completely, daring to take on the rest of her statement even as its meaning burned his tongue.

"That he had a grandson born out-of-wedlock."

Her gaze held his wordlessly, her relief in not having to verbalize those final words abundantly clear.

"Precisely."

He touched the child's hair, marveling at its texture and golden color, so like his and in such lovely contrast to eyes that were hinting at his mother's shade of brown.

"Does he know?"

The question hung stagnant between them.

"Not yet. But he will by the end of the day. Everyone will."

A cold sweat broke out on his neck, the reality of their situation becoming public beginning to take root.

"God, how he'll hate me."

She couldn't contradict him, so very uncertain of just how her father would react to such news that would alter all he knew.

"No more than he will hate me, I assure you."

Matthew shook his head, knowing deeply that at least this assertion would never hold true.

"No. Your father could never hate you, Mary, nor your son. He won't be happy about our situation, but in time he will come around as far as you and Christopher are concerned."

His lips quivered slightly, testing this name so new yet so precious, feeling it's weight and texture in his mouth as its bearer squirmed in response.

"But as for me, I fear I will have lost his respect forever."

The thought burned bitterly, singeing nerves still raw from all of the emotion of the past hour.

"I doubt it."

Her tone was smooth, but decidedly lacking in conviction.

"I don't. I was intimate with his daughter, got her with child while engaged to another, left her alone with no assurances of my return, then managed to get myself injured so that I'm little use to anyone. I'll be fortunate indeed if he doesn't have me shot, as he has every moral right to do."

She was silent a moment, her brows coming together until they nearly touched as she took in sight before her. Matthew—holding their child, soothing him in a most gentle manner as the babe's fingers curled trustingly around one of his father's.

"You're of use to him."

The baby. Christopher. His son.

"I haven't exactly been a stellar father so far."

"I didn't really give you the opportunity, did I?"

Again there was nothing to say. They sat unmoving, watching this child, their son adjust to a chest still unfamiliar as he came to know the man who gave him life.

"Does he have a middle name?"

This finally drew a small smile from her, a hint of the Mary he had known before sparking in her expression.

"Yes. It's Joseph."

He couldn't help but smile along with her.

"How perfect."

"I don't know about that," she began, a bit of a flush coloring her cheeks, "but having his middle name related to my own seemed to affirm our connection after he was born. And I needed that."

Her voice then dropped as her hand cradled his head.

"He was all I had."

Her words pierced him soundly, and he closed his eyes in a defense he knew to be non-existent.

"I should have been there for you. For both of you."

She again had no response.

He instinctively patted the boy's back, feeling his head tap lightly against him as the child settled in comfortably.

"Christopher Joseph Crawley. I like it very much."

She felt a knot give way in her ribcage.

"I'm glad…and more than a little relieved."

He then understood.

"You thought I would expect you to name him after me?"

Her breath stilled in her throat, her heart's thud uncomfortably residing in her temple. She had cried his name into her pillow, cursed it in anger, whispered it in prayer and written it in secret. Yet she did not have the fortitude to pass it on to his son, the pain associated with it something she could not attach to her baby.

"I did wonder."

His head was shaking, responding for him before words had the opportunity to catch up.

"I don't deserve such an honor, Mary." His voice cracked open yet again, and he fought back the tremor in his hand. "I don't deserve him."

"Neither do I. But—"

The rest of her sentence halted in her mouth, her eyes searching his for permission to carry on.

"But I cannot imagine life without him. Regardless of our circumstances, I…I would never wish him away."

Her words had been almost inaudible, yet delivered with a conviction that acutely thrummed every nerve in his body.

"I know. Neither would I."

She smiled softly in response.

He had dreamed of having children, had wondered how it would feel to see one's child for the first time, to feel their body clasped tightly to one's own. Nothing he had envisioned had come even remotely close.

Was this how all fathers felt, he wondered, awash with such amazement and terror at the staggering reality that this small person needed him—would depend upon him, regardless of his limitations? Could he truly be a father from this chair?

He would have to be. Deserting either of them was simply unthinkable.

A silence overtook them as they pondered this life they had created, this child so dependent upon their care who knew nothing of the difficulties they now must face.

"Let me make things right, Mary."

There they were, words she somehow knew he would say that both warmed and pierced regions touched only by him.

"Or as right as they can possibly be after all I have done."

She noted the flushed color of his neck, the swollen redness of his eyes, the broken expression of a man shown a future that overwhelmed him beyond speech. She knew this was the only course, the only manner to bring about any redemption for the three of them, even though one was completely innocent of any wrong-doing. It was right, most certainly necessary…

But it frightened her, though a part of her was awash with relief.

"Are you certain this is what you want, Matthew?"

Her question startled him, the steadiness in her tone a contrast to the slight twitch in her fingers.

"Yes. More than certain."

All color drained from her face, and she licked lips suddenly dry even has her tongue lacked the moisture to provide a modicum of relief.

"I never meant to make you feel obligated."

Her assertion confused him.

"Of course I'm obligated. He's my son."

The statement sprang from him with force, but her pallor softened him immediately. God, of course she would have reservations about marrying him, after all that had happened, with all of his limitations.

"I know this is hardly an ideal situation for you. I mean, look at me. I…"

His words fell fractured in his larynx as his arm began to tremble.

She took the child gently, noting the concern in his glance that he might lose his grip as the hateful tremor overtook him again. His face betrayed his shame in such weakness, his struggle with his own body transparently painful to view. Her free hand moved steadily to his, covering his shaking, the gesture overwhelming to them both.

"I'm not concerned about your chair, you know."

It wasn't a completely truthful statement, yet it needed to be said. She hated to see him in such a position, confined by an uncooperative body to an existence that tore at his demeanor.

"Perhaps you should be."

He wouldn't look at her again, staring at his worthless legs with a disgust that made her suddenly angry.

"Perhaps you should stop using it as an excuse."

His eyes flew to her, the creased lines in her forehead an obvious challenge.

"I wish this had never happened to you, Matthew, with everything inside of me, but we can't change it, no matter how badly we may want to. We can only move forward with what we have left, no matter how unideal our circumstances."

He flinched at the impact of her observations, knowing them to be true and despising the fact.

"If we're going to do it together, we must accept everything about our situation, which unfortunately includes your wheelchair and the certainty of a rather daunting amount of stigma that will follow us the rest of our lives. Trying to withdraw from our difficulties will do nothing but keep us rooted to the same place we are right now. And I personally would rather not stay here."

Where the words had come from, she did not know, yet they poured from her with an authority she had forgotten she possessed. She felt somehow lighter, as if a burden long carried had finally been set down.

"You're right, of course you're right. You just deserve so much more, Mary, more that I can ever hope to give you."

She inhaled deeply.

"This is not about me, Matthew. It's about what's best for him."

Christopher began to nuzzle her breast, and she adjusted him to her shoulder, hoping to delay his need to nurse as she was unwilling to pause their conversation at such an important juncture.

"We have managed on our own, he and I," she observed quietly, "Although your mother has been a tremendous help."

An ache began to pulse demandingly, pulling on her insides from so many regions.

"But he does deserve a father, one who will love him."

His fingers racked through his hair, her statement compounding feelings so new and overpowering that shook him to the core.

"I love him so much already. How could I not?"

His gaze left her in no doubt of this assertion, and her eyes softened as a bit of color returned to her cheeks.

"I know. And I'm glad."

He knew he must tell her, must confess feelings that would most likely be unwelcome after the wounds he had so brutally inflicted. But he would hide nothing from her again, the cost of such inaction more staggering than he had ever anticipated.

"I want you to know, Mary…"

He stumbled upon his own admission, feeling so unworthy of words that must be spoken.

"What is it?"

He stared at the pair of them, mother and child, cocooned together as if perfectly sculpted in such a stance.

"Our marriage would not be simply out of obligation—not on my part, anyway. Regardless of my abhorrent behavior towards you, you need to understand that—"

He paused yet again, fixing his gaze to assuage any doubts she might harbor.

"I still love you. I always have."

She moved to the nearest chair, sitting with her son before her legs had the opportunity to fail. Emotions she had attempted to bury and carve out of her heart struck with renewed force, and she saw him as she had that day at the train station when he kissed her, when she had allowed herself to hope, before the staggering cruelty of disappointed expectations had left her cold to so much around her.

"I believe you. But I'm not certain that I can trust you just yet."

He was not surprised, but still so very disappointed.

"That's understandable."

The baby began to whimper, distracting her while alerting her breasts all too quickly that she would have to take care of them both in rather short order.

"Is he alright?"

She gave him a half-smile, patting Christopher's back as she whispered an endearment in an ear nestled close to her cheek.

"Yes. He's getting hungry."

He nodded, struck anew how she already understood his whimpers and sounds, interpreting them with the insight of a mother.

"Does he….I mean, do you…?"

His lips pursed tightly together in the midst of asking something that seemed suddenly quite personal.

"Do I nurse him, you mean?"

He nodded wordlessly in affirmation.

"Yes. I do."

She could not help but appreciate the blush that crept over his face, astounded at how such a common-place action could give him pause after all that had been exposed between them.

"I wasn't certain if you had hired someone or had chosen to do it yourself."

His curiosity outweighed any lingering discomfort he felt in questioning her further.

"I've been doing quite a bit more for myself, actually," she returned softly, her fingers caressing Christopher's head. "We haven't been living quite as grandly as I did at Downton."

His eyes creased in clear surprise as a sickening thud hit his abdomen.

"You have been well-provided for, haven't you?"

He couldn't stomach the thought of either Mary or their son living in dire conditions.

"Mama sends me money," she returned factually, continuing to bounce the child gently. "She would never allow either of us to struggle. Although she must be discreet about it all since Papa…"

Her eyes fell to her lap. And his guilt increased.

"Since he doesn't know."

"Please don't worry, Matthew. We do live comfortably. I have a housekeeper and a cook, as well as a part-time lady's maid. It has been enough."

Enough. The word seemed dirty, somehow.

"You should have been at Downton, though, given every attention, surrounded by your family. Not off living in seclusion, trying to raise a child on your own."

Her sigh touched him from her seat.

"We can't dwell on that now, Matthew. Such thoughts serve no purpose other than trying to undo a past that neither of us would prefer to revisit."

She had come to accept her new life out of necessity, shoving aside the bitterness of loss as her time had drawn ever closer. Loneliness had been the steepest hurdle to overcome, a fact which had surprised her as she had always cherished times of solitude. But too much had worn on her, the lack of her family sapping her energy and spirit as her pregnancy had progressed. Making new friends seemed like a waste of time as she would either have to lie about her situation or face rejection here in her new location.

"Where have you been, exactly?"

She had forgotten that she had not told him yet.

"We've been north, actually. In Cumberland."

"The Lake District?" he inquired, not certain what he had expected yet surprised all the same.

"Yes. It is quite lovely."

The babe began to burrow again, and she slid a knuckle into his mouth, knowing he would soon reach the limits of his patience.

"Mama helped me locate a suitable house not far from the lake, actually. And the mountains are truly breath-taking."

He watched her closely, noting the slight movement of her brows, the flicker of her mouth before daring to state the obvious.

"But it isn't home."

Her shoulders deflated a bit, the truth of his observation too heavy to hold.

"No. It isn't home. But there we face no censure as it is believed that I am a widow."

He nodded slowly, hating that she had been forced into an identity crafted by untruths for her own protection.

"And if you were to return with a husband?"

Her heart thudded uncomfortably as the word fell from his lips.

"It would be a bit of a surprise, I suppose. But life would go on. It's not Downton, you know, where my family's reputation is at stake. I am still an unknown there."

His mind was spinning again as he attempted to piece together the fragments of her life.

"Did you not use your own name?"

"No. I used my mother's," she replied softly. "Levinson."

"Mary Levinson," he echoed, noting her hesitant nod. "It couldn't have been easy to assume a new identity in a place so far away."

She couldn't look at him then, needing the face of her child in her mind as she reminded herself of why all she had done had been necessary.

"Nothing about our situation has been easy, Matthew."

"No. No, it hasn't." He paused, staring again at the miracle in her arms, biting down another wave of crushing regret at missing so much of a life just beginning.

"I wrote to you, actually. From the front, I mean."

Eyes rounded in shock met his, her mouth slightly agape at his confession.

"I never received a letter," she asserted, her pulse thudding painfully in her ears as implications rendered her immobile.

He looked down to his lap, clearing his throat.

"That's because I never sent them."

Breathing suddenly became an act of will.

"Them?"

The word hung between them, the threat of tears much too close for her own comfort.

"Several, actually. I lost count at some point."

One then broke free from her lashes, blazing a heated trail down her cheek.

"Why did you never…?"

"I told you, Mary. I was a complete coward."

They stared at each other, the silence all-encompassing except for the fidgeting of their son against her breast.

"I felt so betrayed by what had happened at first, yet so ashamed. I thought…"

He broke off, not wanting to hurt her yet again, not wanting to increase the void they had been so carefully attempting to bridge.

"Just say it, Matthew. If we are to have even the smallest of chances, we must be honest with each other."

Fists clenched tightly in an effort to summon the necessary courage.

"I convinced myself that what happened must have meant nothing to you if it had happened before with someone…"

He hesitated, seeing a small measure of defeat in her eyes.

"Go on."

The whispered command left no room for disagreement.

"If you had been with someone else so entirely disconnected from your life."

Her fingers were suddenly quite cold.

"Then I began to realize what an idiot I was being and that it truly was my responsibility to make things right between us, no matter what had happened before."

He sighed, staring beyond her into the past that had brought them shakily to this moment.

"I wrote to Lavinia and broke things off with her," he continued throatily, a small laugh escaping him as he rubbed his chin. "That letter was actually much easier to write than…than the ones to you."

The baby began to protest, and she shifted his stance to her other shoulder, kissing his forehead.

"But you posted the letter to her."

Their eyes met again.

"Yes. I did."

Her lip trembled slightly, and she drew a deep breath in an attempt to keep hold of her composure.

"I crafted your first letter and then wouldn't send it because it was full of such anger," he explained, his voice quivering. "Anger at him, anger at you, but mostly anger at myself."

She noted the tremor in his chest, brought about by sheer emotion rather than any physical injury.

"So I put it away and drafted another, this one a bit more reasonable, I thought, but still too emotional to allow you to read."

Another tear escaped her, sneaking out the corner of her eye as it found its way to her earlobe.

"William caught me on several occasions, and he berated me soundly for lacking the courage to post them," he mused softly, the memory of a man lost still too painful to absorb. "Of course, he had no knowledge of what had transpired between us and thought I was simply trying to muster the courage to tell you how I really felt."

Then the tears were his, their decent somehow forging a fragile connection in the space between them.

"I was afraid of loving you, Mary. Afraid of what it meant, afraid of how you would respond, afraid of your reaction to an honest admission of my feelings. So I let the dangers of war serve as an excuse for my own inaction, all the while sentencing you and our child to an uncertain and lonely existence."

She was unsure-unsteady, terrified of her need to run to him yet unwilling to shove it aside. She instead held his son to her heart, a mute expression of the love she bore him and that which she still held for his father.

"We've both been so foolish, Matthew. So very, very foolish."

He wiped his eyes hastily, pressing his lips together as he nodded in assent.

"Yes. And me most of all."

He pushed his chair in her direction, stopping close enough to touch her, even as his hands tightly clasped his chair. So much stood between them—years of misunderstanding, of dancing around each other, stolen glances, secret kisses, an afternoon of forbidden intimacy that had changed everything. But he loved her. There was no question.

And it was time he took responsibility for his feelings and his life.

"Marry me?"

The breath of his proposal caressed her insides, pulling her inextricably towards him as she quietly voiced the answer that had always been inevitable.

"Yes."

He then took her hand, daring a kiss on its surface with trembling lips as both dropped their heads at such contact.

"I'm determined, you know," he managed, capturing her gaze once again. "To restore your trust in me."

They sat there, the three of them, connected physically as an awareness of something new hovered over them in a fragile beauty.

"I hope you can," she returned quietly, a shaky warmth spreading through her chest as he tenderly cupped Christopher's small head with his palm.

"So do I."

The child then cried out, pulling her from this unsteady trance as she stood wobbly on her feet.

"I must see to him," she explained, the expression in his eyes so vastly different than the one she had carried in her memory for too many months.

He nodded his understanding, watching her leave the room in a bit of a daze. The absolution she had extended pulsed in his very skin, making him so keenly aware to the responsibilities lying yet before him as it bolstered his determination to shelter her from any further difficulty.

He would speak with her family, face her father, take on any opposition they might face as their indiscretion was revealed. He would not allow this blasted chair to hinder him further—the stakes were too high, those involved much too precious. Mary needed him, Christopher needed him. He was a father, soon to be a husband, and a man who had much to lose and quite a journey before him to repair what he had marred. But he would do it. God help him, he would do it.

Mary had granted him grace beyond measure. And he promised himself that he would now give her everything, no matter how much it may cost.

* * *

_**Christopher**: One who bears Christ; one favored by God; what I have borne. _

_I felt the final meaning was particularly fitting in relation to Mary's journey in this story. And if any of my readers are not aware of Mary's middle name, it is Josephine. :)_

_So no-this baby is not George. This is a different child born in an AU of S2, so I felt it more appropriate to give him a completely different identity. You can read about George in the Strangers universe if you are so inclined._

_I shall see you in two weeks, everyone. Again-your reviews and thoughts are very much appreciated! Wishing you all a most wonderful week. :)_


	8. Chapter 8

_Well, I am a day and a half late, but here is Chapter 8. I do hope it was worth the wait, and I appreciate your patience and understanding more than you know. I had a most wonderful anniversary get-a-way with my husband (actually went zip lining for the first time!) and enjoyed a lovely birthday yesterday. Thanks to the many of you who sent along well-wishes...I adored them all!_

_Once again, I must give a huge measure of thanks to both **Orangeshipper** and **patsan** for their amazing editing skills and insight. You two are so very precious to me!_

_I shall now leave you to the chapter. Enjoy!_

* * *

**March, 1918**

Would this horrid retching never stop?

She had emptied the contents of her stomach several minutes ago, yet she could not move from the floor, her body continuing to heave in a cruel mockery of her now undeniable condition. Excuses and other plausible explanations were discarded, the fact that her second cycle was now over a week late in arriving sealing her fate.

There was no use in deceiving herself any longer. She was carrying his child…Matthew's child.

Dear God, what was she supposed to do?

Tears fell as she began to heave yet again, her body trembling in protest to this intrusion growing in her womb. It seemed horribly unfair, she mused, that something for which she had secretly longed could now bring about her ruin.

Two of them had created this situation, two bore its responsibility, yet the shame and consequences would be carried by only one. He had shunned her two months ago, leaving her in a silent hell as she awaited word of something. An apology, a dismissal, a proposal…anything would have been preferable to the weeks of wordless confusion that had become her existence.

Yet she could not remain in such a state. Neither denial nor self-pity would do her any good. Reality had to be faced, plans made, an unthinkable future plotted, all under a cloud of deception she already despised.

There was now a child to consider. Matthew's child.

No. He had forsaken any claim to this baby when he had washed his hands of her. This child would be hers and hers alone. A surge of terror overtook her, the knowledge that she had no idea of just how to be a mother pushing out a fresh bout of tears. She already possessed doubts as to her suitability for such a role. How on earth was she supposed to do this alone?

Her stomach clenched yet again, weary arms bracing a frame quite exhausted from heaving.

Was there no mercy to be found?

Trembling limbs finally bore her back to her bed, the only refuge left to her as she sought its encompassing warmth. She drew the covers to her chin, one hand drifting down in spite of herself, touching her stomach, acknowledging an existence that should not be.

She buried her face in her pillow, forcing what tears remained from her eyes as she sought a calm she feared forever lost. She had to find her center, to set sentiment aside and cloak herself in the more comfortable threads of reason. Fingers began to softly stroke what would remain undetected only so much longer.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered into the stillness, seeking forgiveness from a child who would always live under a shadow. "So very sorry."

The click of her door pushed her upright, the quickness of her motion making her stomach protest yet again. Anna stood haltingly just inside her room, looking from the tray she bore back to Mary.

"I brought you some tea and dry toast, my lady. I thought it might help."

Her face fell in embarrassment, unable to gaze at the clear understanding in the other woman's eyes.

"Thank you, Anna. That was very kind."

Anna made her way quietly to the bedside, setting a tray gently on Mary's lap.

"Are you alright?"

The question seemed almost absurd.

"As much as I can be, I suppose."

She received a silent nod. What else was there to be said in such a situation?

The tea soothed a throat raw from its morning abuse, and she sat up straighter as Anna adjusted the pillows behind her back.

"Is there anything I can do for you? Anything at all? "

Trembling hands deposited her tea cup back to a solid surface, eyes finally moving to the other woman's face.

"I fear there is little that can be done anymore."

Anna shook her head, her brow creasing slightly.

"Don't say that, my lady. I'm sure a solution can be found."

A sigh heaved from weary lungs.

"What acceptable solution is there in a situation like this, Anna?"

The maid looked hesitant to answer.

"Marriage would seem like the most obvious course of action," she finally voiced, staring at her hands uncomfortably.

"Even if the father of my child is engaged to someone else?"

There. She had admitted it. Was it wrong that voicing such a disgraceful statement afforded her a slight measure of relief?

"Mr. Matthew then?"

The whispered inquiry thundered in her head.

"Yes."

She licked pasty lips as her admission took root.

"You should write to him and tell him, my lady," Anna finally suggested, twisting her fingers together. "He is a man of honor."

A dull roar began in her ears.

"A man of honor who walked away from me right after we—"

Her sentence halted in her throat. Someone else was listening, a shadow preceding a hidden figure into the light of the room.

"Who's there?"

The momentary silence nearly undid her.

"Only your mother."

She sighed in a mixture of relief and dread.

Cora then moved towards the pair of them, her eyes never breaking contact with her daughter's.

Eyes that saw too much.

"Don't stop on my account."

Mary's airway constricted.

"What did you hear?"

Her heart began to thud painfully, the knowledge that this conversation was inevitable doing nothing to lessen her discomfort.

"Not much, actually. But I have a pretty good idea of what was being said."

Silence.

"If you'll just excuse me—"

"No, Anna," Mary commanded quietly, halting the woman's retreat. "You can stay. I'd prefer that you did, actually."

The maid nodded wordlessly, stepping back just far enough to give mother and daughter a modicum of space. A space that quite suddenly felt cavernous.

The pair stared at each other in silence, Cora slowly taking a seat as she dared the first move.

"How far along are you, Mary?"

Her limbs felt numb.

She then closed her eyes, fingers again flittering to her abdomen as all pretense clattered to the floor.

"About two months, I suppose."

Lady Grantham simply nodded.

"That coincides with Matthew's last visit, doesn't it? When he returned just in time for the concert?"

She swallowed down a fresh urge to be sick.

"Yes."

How she wished her mother would look at the walls, out the window, anywhere but directly at her. Her hands began to fidget uncomfortably.

"I assume there is no coincidence in the timing of things, is there?"

Her chest and arms began to shake.

"No."

She closed her eyes and saw him, making his way behind the rest of the soldiers, William at his heels, smiling up at her as her heart literally paused in wonder. A moment frozen in time that had led to an afternoon that would mark her forever.

She bit her bottom lip.

"And just why has Matthew not yet proposed? I should think that would have been his first course of action after taking such liberties with you."

Harsh words stung a heart already bruised.

"He is engaged to someone else, Mama."

Cora's nostrils flared dangerously.

"And so are you. But this is not Richard Carlisle's baby, is it?"

Her sigh was audible.

"No."

Thank God.

"Surely Matthew will have broken things off with Lavinia by now," her mother continued, confusion evident on her face. "No matter the lack of sound judgment the two of you have demonstrated in this situation, the fact is that Matthew is a good man. He obviously still has feelings for you, and I cannot imagine that he would abandon you after…"

Her sentence trailed off.

"After we made love, you mean?"

The words burned her throat, the act described one too painful to remember.

"Precisely."

Her chest constricted mercilessly.

"What is it you're not telling me, Mary?"

Her stomach began to churn. How could she even begin to describe such an intimate yet damning detail?

"He found out," she managed, the admission nearly choking her. "About Mr. Pamuk, I mean."

Cora's eyes narrowed.

"You told him? Why?"

Her face burned.

"I had to, because he…he figured things out for himself."

Lady Grantham's sharp intake of breath caught her attention, and she watched all color bleed from her mother's face.

"You mean while you were…"

"Yes, for God's sake! Do I have to spell it out?"

She grasped the tea cup, needing a brief respite from the scrutiny staring back at her with owl-like eyes.

"What did he say to you?"

Oh, God.

_Who was it, Mary?_

His question still cut, the seething hurt in his expression ripping her internally as his shock morphed into disgust.

"He wanted to know who it was," she replied softly, taking another sip to calm frayed nerves.

"And you told him?"

_Does it really matter?_

She had known that the man's identity was secondary in importance, the fact that she was impure overriding any other concern in his mind.

"Yes. I did."

Her mother's eyes widened further.

"How did he respond?"

_How could you conceal something like this from me all this time and then be with me like we just were?_

_Because I love you too much_, she had wanted to scream. _Because of all people in the world, the one whose opinion matters the most to me is yours. _Yet she had swallowed back those statements, knowing they would do nothing but expose her to pity as she struck back at him with all she had.

_How could you kiss me like you did at the station then come home to her without a word?_

He had stared at her in horror.

_There is no comparison in what we have done, and you know it._

His accusation had stripped her defenseless. Then he had left.

"Not very well, I'm afraid. I haven't heard from him since."

"Yet he had the gall to walk away from you after he did the same thing?"

Cora's expression was incredulous now, and Mary realized that a great portion of her anger was directed at Matthew.

"He said that he had hoped…"

Hoped what? That they could have become engaged? He had never told her, she realized, leaving her suspended in a world of shame that would now become physically evident to anyone who cared to look. For a few stolen moments, she had been his lover. Now the only distinction she bore was that of discarded mother to his bastard child.

"Yes?"

Her mother watched her closely, waiting quietly for the rest of her sentence.

"I don't know, honestly."

Mary exhaled loudly, wishing she had a better reply than the one she had just offered.

"I think it is time he stopped hoping and started taking responsibility for his actions."

Her mother's voice had dropped, an icy fire lacing her tone.

"You cannot tell him, Mama. Please."

A tear threatened to give way, and she covered her mouth, unwilling to weep openly at such a moment.

"He has to know, Mary. The two of you must marry at once if anything is going to be salvaged."

Her head was shaking of its own accord, another tear wafting down her cheek.

"No. He cannot stand the sight of me now, don't you understand? How can I possibly enter a marriage with a man who thinks so little of me, especially when I—"

Her chin wobbled, her fingers dancing restlessly on the tray.

"When you love him so much?"

Her mother finished for her, pushing her over the edge as everything shattered around her.

"I won't be his wife out of pity," she insisted, sniffing back her grief as best she could. "I can manage many things, but not that."

Her mother's stare sharpened.

"You aren't considering trying to pass this child off as Richard's?"

A rueful laugh morphed into a cough.

"No. I plan on ending our engagement within the week."

"So enlighten me, Mary," Lady Grantham began, "If you will not inform Matthew that he is to be a father, and you refuse to marry Sir Richard, then what are your plans?"

Her gaze lowered to her tray.

"I thought I might go away, to a place where no one knows me."

Her heart plummeted at her own statement.

"Are you quite certain? That is a rather drastic action."

"I know. But it is best for everyone."

She half-hoped her mother would contradict her.

"Do you wish to go to New York? I can write mother immediately and make arrangements."

"No," she insisted. "I can't be that far away. I would prefer to remain in England."

Cora pursed her lips thoughtfully.

"Well, London is out of the question. A small town would be better, I suppose."

Her mind began to reel as the reality of her situation took hold. Downton was lost to her, her family slipping through her fingers. Should she reconsider telling Matthew? After all, her child could then be heir if she carried a son, raised to a life denied her because of her gender.

No. She could not stomach the thought of living with him day in and day out knowing how little he thought of her. What kind of life would that be for her?

What a horrid existence for their child.

"What do you say, Mary?"

Her mother's question startled her back to her present surroundings, looking to Anna as if answers could be found upon her face.

"To what, exactly?"

"To the Lake District? It's a decent distance from Downton, and we have no real connections there. But you would be close enough so that I could visit."

What?

Her mother's hand then encircled her own, the gesture nearly undoing her.

"You will visit?"

Her breath stilled in her throat.

"Of course I will. You're my daughter, no matter what has happened."

Tears were impossible to hold back any longer, and she hung her head. Relief, fear, dread, they swirled together in some unholy cocktail as she squeezed her mother's hand in return.

It was her sole lifeline to any semblance of hope.

"You really don't think I will be permanently separated from my first grandchild, do you?"

"Oh, Mama."

Anna removed the tray hastily, sensing the gesture before it transpired. Mother and daughter clasped tightly together, a bond of blood overruling the stigma of shame. For once, Mary was relieved that her mother was American, wondering if she would have received the same measure of grace from her father.

No. She knew better.

"What will you tell Papa?"

A moment of silence breeched their connection.

"That you need to get away for a while," Lady Grantham finally returned. "That ending your engagement to Richard was quite difficult for you, and that you needed some distance from all that has happened here."

She nodded in agreement, her mother's reasoning making sense.

"Tell him I'm in America. Let everyone believe that, actually. It will explain my lengthy absence."

Months of loneliness suddenly stretched out before her.

"If that's what you really want," Cora replied, searching her daughter's face, "but we shall have to tell him the truth at some point. I don't want to be separated from you for too long."

Her chest hollowed at the thought.

"He won't receive me," Mary argued softly, wiping the corner of her eyes. "No who knows me will once my circumstances are made public."

"Oh, Mary," her mother put in. "You don't know him as well as you think you do."

"But Mama—you don't understand," she implored. "I would not only have to tell him about Matthew, but also about Kemal Pamuk. He won't accept the notion that Matthew would simply walk away from me without a reason."

Cora nodded slowly, her features creased in concentration.

"I understand your concern, truly I do. But what happened with Mr. Pamuk took place years ago, Mary. And once your father actually meets his grandchild, he won't have the heart to turn the two of you away."

She shook her head decisively.

"I wish I shared your confidence."

Her mother tightened her grip.

"So do I."

Her eyes stared out the window, seeking something no longer there.

"Matthew can never know. Promise me."

The words chilled her skin as they left her lips, her mother paling slightly at their utterance.

"If that's what you really want."

She pulled icy feet up under her body, the blanket doing little to warm them.

"Yes. It's what I want."

The lie tasted bitter.

Cora nodded softly and took her leave, her exit setting into motion the end of life as she knew it.

She finally made eye contact with Anna, granting her unvoiced permission to begin their morning routine. How she welcomed this care, taking in the sensation of hair being brushed and styled, knowing this luxury would no longer be hers within a matter of days. Anna would be left behind, another staggering loss. And she would cast her lot among strangers, take on an identity not her own to raise a child hidden from his father. A surge of panic seized her, and she nearly faltered in her determination.

Perhaps she should write to Matthew.

No. Matthew already despised her. Why should she subject herself to being reminded of his disdain on a daily basis? This had to be done, her plan carried through. It was better for everyone, actually.

Truly it was.

Wasn't it?

* * *

**November, 1918**

She sat in the large chair, shifting Christopher to her other breast as she adjusted her blouse accordingly. He latched on eagerly, bringing relief to her hardened nipple. She stroked his hair, still in awe of what had just transpired.

Matthew had met his son. And it had nearly destroyed her.

He had held the infant to his chest with a reverence that hurt, kissed his soft head and wept over his very existence. The adoration he felt for the boy was evident, causing Mary to question every decision she had made during the past nine months.

Had she been wrong in concealing her pregnancy from Matthew? How different would things now be for all of them if she had pushed aside her fears and written to him as Anna had suggested?

Would Christopher now be accepted as their legitimate son rather than being a baby held in secret? Had her ridiculous pride stolen more than a simple birthright from her own son?

"Oh, my darling," she whispered over his forehead, her thumb stroking his cheek. "What have I done to you?"

She had never felt so wretched.

A knock interrupted her musings, and she adjusted the blanket, concealing both him and her own exposure.

"Who is it?"

"It's your mother."

She should have anticipated this visit.

"Come in."

The door creaked open, Cora emerging into the room, moving to a chair nearby as she studied her daughter's face.

"Well," she began, her curiosity evident. "How did everything go?"

Mary shot her mother a look.

"Better than expected, actually."

Cora's resulting sigh was audible.

"I'm so glad. I could not imagine that he could meet his own child and not fall in love with him."

"He's quite besotted with him, to tell the truth."

Mary pushed her lips together, peaking under the blanket to look upon her child once more.

"Did he propose?"

Her chest tightened perceptibly as her fingers chilled.

"Yes. He did."

Lady Grantham looked at her expectantly, rolling her eyes when no further information was offered.

"And?"

Mary shifted uncomfortably.

"And I accepted him. What choice did I have?"

Cora watched her in silence, leaning in as she pushed forward.

"Not much of one, I admit. But this is an improvement from where things stood just hours ago."

Her mind was still reeling from the changes that had transpired.

"I suppose."

"You are to have a husband and Christopher his father. How is that not a better situation?"

She inhaled deeply, shaking her head, knowing she possessed no logical answer.

"Are you sorry that he knows?"

Cora's question struck a chord.

"No. It was wrong of me to keep him from Christopher as long as I did."

Her mother's eyes narrowed.

"Don't be too hard on yourself. He did put you in an impossible situation."

A chill ran up her legs.

"Yes. I know."

"Do you still love Matthew?"

Her heart burned painfully, a sensation that seemed to be reserved solely for him.

"I'll always love him. Somehow, I can't get away from that, no matter what I do, no matter how badly he hurts me."

Eyes met in shared understanding.

"Did he confess to having any feelings for you?"

She shifted again.

"He said that he has never stopped loving me. Even when he was engaged to Lavinia."

"I'm not surprised," Cora returned.

Mary's jaw gaped slightly.

"Really? Because I was rather stunned."

The repercussions of choices made pecked at her relentlessly, making her skin itch as nerves took over.

"Oh, Mama, what have I done?"

The question tore from her chest, her thoughts spinning in a never-ending loop.

"If I had listened to you and Anna months ago, we might not be facing such a predicament now."

Cora stood and moved to her daughter's side, taking her hand firmly.

"That's true. But he may not have responded as well then as he just did," Lady Grantham reasoned. "Matthew has had to endure his share of suffering over the past several months. He may have resented you back then rather than embracing his son as he is doing now."

Mary stared up her mother in concern.

"I don't know. I'm so uncertain of everything."

"Welcome to motherhood," Cora smiled knowingly.

She held Christopher close, feeling rounded lips release her as small eyes fluttered shut.

"I don't regret him, Mama," she breathed, moving his sated form to her shoulder. "I'm not proud of the circumstances in which he was conceived, but I am immensely proud of him."

Cora rubbed her hand across the child's head.

"As you should be. He's beautiful."

She swallowed with effort.

"Have you told Papa yet?"

She held her breath in anticipation.

"No."

She nodded into the silence.

"But I have shared your situation with someone who wants to help."

Mary's eyes widened, every nerve on high alert.

"And who is that, pray?"

Cora's hand rested softly on her shoulder.

"Your grandmother. She's waiting just downstairs."

Granny.

Her pulse sped perceptibly, her palms warming.

"And you say she wants to help? She knows everything?"

Cora knelt down until they were eye to eye.

"Yes."

_Yes._

Her eyes closed in relief.

"I should like to see her very much."

Cora's smile broadened.

"Then I shall let her know."

She watched her mother take her leave, breathing in a silence that would soon be lost. If her grandmother knew, then her father would soon be informed. How much longer until word spread to all of her family, throughout the Abbey, across the entire village?

She softly nudged his hair with the tip of her nose, depositing a light kiss on his ear.

Measured steps on the stairs were slow, yet their progression steady. Mary quickly righted her clothing, wiping the baby's mouth as she turned her son for his great-grandmother's inspection. She stood, cradling his burrowing form close, placing a smile upon her face in anticipation.

Then Violet Crawley entered the room.

"Mary."

The older woman extended her arms, an invitation offered that was readily accepted. They embraced gently, mindful of the baby now snuggled between them as dampened eyes held on to each other. She felt suddenly whole, pieces of herself missing too long finally fitting back together.

"Oh, Granny."

They drew back slightly, re-establishing a kinship of old existing in both blood and demeanor. Violet's hand reached out to the babe, touching his hair, staring at the precious marvel in front of her.

"So this is my great-grandson."

He stretched in response.

"Yes," Mary whispered.

Speech was suddenly difficult, the reality of her grandmother's touch still difficult to grasp.

"Christopher Joseph, I understand."

She gazed at the woman before her, attempting to discern her thoughts.

"That's right."

Violet simply nodded.

"Very good. Christopher Crawley is a fine name, indeed."

A small smile graced her lips.

"He's been going by Christopher Levinson."

Violet's face pinched in distaste.

"Well, that will certainly be changing now, won't it? He is a Crawley, after all, on both his mother's and father's sides of the family."

She bit her lower lip.

"Yes. I suppose it will."

The Dowager Countess nodded in satisfaction.

"Then let us have no more of this Levinson business. It is taxing enough to entertain the Americans when they pay us a visit. I don't need a daily reminder of their existence."

An actual chuckle emerged from Mary's chest. How she had missed her grandmother.

They moved slowly to awaiting chairs, neither willing to let go of this newly forged connection.

"You're looking well, Mary. Better than I expected."

Nerves began to settle.

"Thank you, Granny, but Isobel deserves much of the credit. I was in a rather horrid state a few weeks ago."

"Most women are after giving birth, my dear. Men have no idea."

She smiled softly, feeling small fingers wrap around her own.

"No. They don't."

The baby gurgled, drawing their attention as Violet smiled at him indulgently.

"I wish you had come to me sooner. I would have helped you, you know."

Her eyes fell to her lap.

"I wasn't sure how you would react. Telling Mama was difficult enough."

"Oh, yes, I imagine that it was," Violet agreed. "But the fact remains that you are family. And no matter what happens, we Crawleys always take care of our own."

Her face flushed, her brows drawing together.

"And Papa? Do you think he will feel the same way?"

Violet exhaled audibly.

"He will if he knows what is good for him."

"I'm not so certain, Granny. He may turn us all away the moment he realizes what has transpired."

A brow arched in her direction.

"Leave Robert to your mother. She has years of experience in making up his mind for him."

Her heart stilled.

"Has she gone then? To speak to Papa?"

Crystal eyes gazed back at her in silence.

"Dear God, Granny."

Lined lips pursed together.

"You've been through quite an ordeal and have attempted to shelter your family from scandal single-handedly. That will mean something to your father, Mary. Besides, you hold his future in your arms. That baby will quench any wrath he fires in your direction rather efficiently."

She dropped her head.

"Do you really think so? Do you actually believe that Christopher could inherit Downton?"

A reassuring smugness met her concern.

"He is a male child born to an heir wounded in battle who is very unlikely to father any more children. It's a simple as that."

Mary's brow creased.

"But he is illegitimate."

Violet didn't flinch.

"War changes things, Mary. As does a word or a strong suggestion whispered into the right ears."

"I doubt it will change Papa's response, all the same," Mary replied, doubt still evident in her tone.

The older woman leaned forward on her cane.

"As I told you before, leave Robert to your mother and to me. Focus on taking care of your baby and preparing yourself for a marriage."

"Don't you mean a wedding?"

"I mean a marriage," Violet returned, refusing to blink. "A wedding is over within a few minutes; a marriage lasts a lifetime."

She stared at her grandmother intently.

"I know it's not exactly the type of marriage all of you had in mind for us," Mary admitted, the wobble in her voice betrayed her nervousness.

"No. But it's the one you will have. And just how well it works out will be up to you and Matthew."

Her heart cinched uncomfortably. She feared to hope for too much.

They sat in relative silence, relishing simple moments denied for too long. The child soon fell asleep, his warmth a comfort, her grandmother's presence a reassurance. Then a sound alerted them to something new, heavy feet and a deep voice carrying up the stairs from the main entrance. Their eyes met, so much communicated in complete silence.

Robert Crawley had arrived. And he did not sound happy.

* * *

_I do hope to get back on my regular posting schedule over the next two weeks. And, as always, I treasure hearing your thoughts! _


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